


The Devil Hath Power, and Other Important Lessons

by InfiniteCrisis



Category: British Actor RPF, Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Angst and Porn, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Caning, Dom/sub, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Kenneth Branagh/Tom Hiddleston (past relationship), Kink Meme, M/M, Non-Consensual, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Slut Shaming, bottom!Tom Hiddleston, gay!Tom Hiddleston, gratuitous shakespeare, it does get to comfort eventually, sadist!Chris, victim!Tom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 34
Words: 68,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteCrisis/pseuds/InfiniteCrisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt from NorseKink:</p><p>Tom is a high school english professor, Chris is one of his students (16-17). Chris won't take no for an answer.</p><p>Bonus for-</p><p>-sex on a desk<br/>-lots of dirty talk/profanity from Chris that makes Tom blush<br/>-reversal of the "naughty school boy" trope (like Chris calling Tom "bad teacher")</p><p>Pretty much that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Chris doesn't respect boundries, and Tom recites a sonnet

**Author's Note:**

> This may turn into a longer story, in which case I can make no promises about anything regarding where it will go. It's already pretty dark, so please be aware. I'll try and give detailed warnings for each chapter as I go, but please, just...be warned. Generally. 
> 
> Also, this is not really a Chris/Tom shipping fic. Chris is pretty much an irredeemable pyscho here, and I don't want anyone to get their hopes up for that changing. 
> 
> Also, this is my first time posting to AO3, so I might screw it up.

The bell rang and Tom smiled fondly as his students rushed to pack up and leave. He wasn’t offended, last class on a Friday and all.  As he collected his own things, he couldn’t help feeling like he wanted to celebrate.  He knew the first year teaching on your own could be tough, he’d heard as much, and he’d only been here one month but…so far, things were going quite well.  He was teaching a subject he loved, something he’d wanted to do for as long as he could remember, he was doing a pretty bang up job, he didn’t mind saying.  It was a good feeling, like things were falling into place, and it made him want to get a drink, or treat himself to dinner.

 

He closed his briefcase and stood up, reaching for his jacket, when he noticed that not everyone had vacated.  There was a blond boy in the back still sitting at his desk, Christopher…Hemsworth, yes that was it.  He knew all his students by now of course, it was just…names had never been his strong suit.  Christopher did reasonably well on his assignments, but was very quiet in class, and Tom had the feeling he could do better.  He was also fairly new here, his family having just moved the year before from Australia.  This might be an opportunity. 

 

“Mr. Hemsworth,” he said, walking round to the front of his desk.  “Is there something I can help you with?”

 

“Help me with?” Christopher said, rather oddly.  Tom brow furrowed, but he smiled.

 

“Yes, a…a question perhaps?”

 

Christopher stood, walking toward the front of the classroom.  He was tall, Tom noted, as he approached.  He wasn’t used to having to look up at his students, or most people in general at 6’2’’, but Christopher had outgrown him by a good two inches.

 

“Um,” Christopher scratched behind his ear.  “Yeah, I guess I have some questions.”

 

“Please,” Tom encouraged, sitting on the edge of his desk.

 

“Well,” Christopher started, looking down and shoving his hands in his pockets.  “Aren’t you kind of…young?  To be a teacher?” 

 

Tom laughed softly.  It wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but he wasn’t exactly surprised.  It was bound to come up.  He didn’t think it had to be a disadvantage either.  Having someone relatively closer to their own age could be good for his students, make him more relatable.  He didn’t want to be one of those teachers students were afraid of; he wanted to be a resource, someone they could trust.   

 

“Well, as you know, this is my first year, but for a first year teacher I believe I’m just about on schedule.”

 

“How old are you?” Christopher asked, head tilting curiously.

 

Tom smiled again.  “I’m twenty-four.”

 

“That’s only seven years older than me,” said Christopher, sounding not quite surprised. 

 

“Well, seven years can be a long time,” Tom said, good-naturedly.  “After all, if I were seven years younger than you, I’d be ten.”

 

Christopher crinkled his nose.  “That’s not the same.”

 

Tom laughed again, spreading his hands.  “I’m just saying, you know a lot more now than you did at ten.  I know a lot more now than I did at seventeen.  I’ve had seven years experience under my belt.”

 

“Yeah,” Christopher said softly, his eyes tracking with a kind of strange expression.  “I’ll bet.  How many guys you let fuck you?”

 

Tom blinked, as his brow struggled to land on an expression.  “…Excuse me?”  He honestly hadn’t registered the question at first.  There’d been no change in inflection, nothing in Christopher’s tone to differentiate this question from any of his others.

 

“I’m just wondering,” Christopher continued, shrugging.  “All that ‘experience.’  You ever fuck one of your professors?  You seem like you’d be sort of a teacher’s, you know.  Pet.“

 

“This is completely inappropriate,” Tom stood up, sharp and angry.  He crossed his arms over his chest.  “If this is your idea of a joke it is not remotely funny.  Now, I think you should leave, before I’m forced to take disciplinary action.”

 

Christopher smiled.  “You mean, like, what?  Call my parents?  Send me to the headmaster?  Give me detention?  With you?”  He made a very obvious show of looking over Tom’s body.  “That’d be a treat.” 

 

Tom suddenly felt very cold.  “You need to leave Mr. Hemsworth.  Now.”

 

“’Mr. Hemsworth,’” Christopher repeated mockingly.  “Is that supposed to make things formal?  Give you authority?”  He leaned in and exaggeratedly whispered.  “It’s not working.  _Professor._ ” 

 

Enough, Tom turned away, meaning to grab his things and head straight for the door, when suddenly two large hands slammed into the edge of the desk, trapping him between two muscled arms. 

 

Tom was suddenly very aware of his heart beating. 

 

“I just want to know,” Christopher said, as though it were the most reasonable thing in the world.  “How many guys?  Hmm?  How many guys you let fuck your arse?”  Tom’s eyes flicked to the door, closed, the tiny window showing no one in the hall.  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about anyone interrupting.  Or hearing.  Anything.  The only people left on campus more than twenty minutes into a weekend are the jocks, and they’re all out on the field or in the locker room.  It’s just you, and me.” 

 

Tom thought very hard about shouting for help anyway.

 

“It is a very serious offense,” he said quietly, fighting for control of his voice.  “To assault a teacher.” 

 

“Oh, is that what’s happening?” Christopher smirked.  “I thought I was just asking a question.  Besides,” he leaned in even closer; Tom tried to lean back without losing his balance, bracing his hands on the desk behind him.  “If anyone came in right now, what would they see?  An attractive male student, with his young, queer, English teacher.  What will they think?”

 

Tom’s brow furrowed.  He didn’t advertise his sexuality, but he didn’t exactly hide it either.  They wouldn’t…no one would really think…?

 

“Especially,” Christopher continued.  “When that teacher has a raging hard-on.”

 

“What?” Tom exclaimed incredulously, and then there was a knee pushing between his legs into his groin.  He gasped, falling back onto the desk, and brought a hand up to Christopher’s chest, to push him away, but the boy merely grabbed his wrist and shoved it back behind him.  Then he took Tom’s other hand, and soon he was holding both wrists easily in a single grip at the small of Tom’s back.

 

The knee was still shoved between his legs, and it pressed in small, undulating circles.  It wasn’t gentle, in fact it was even painful, but…it was also good.  Really good.  Tom bit back a moan, and felt himself start to swell.

 

“See,” Christopher gripped his hair, pulling to whisper into his ear.  “I knew you were a raging faggot the second you walked in the door.  This what you like, a hot young lad between your legs?”  Tom tried to shake his head, panting, but the grip in his hair was too strong.  “Like getting us boys’ attention, wear these tight little suits, show off your arse?”  Tom tried to shake his head no again, licking his lips.  What was happening, this…couldn’t be happening.  “You’ve wanted me since the first day of class.”

 

Tom’s eyebrows pinched together, somehow managing to be offended despite these already absurd circumstances.  That wasn’t true, was it?  He couldn’t deny the boy was handsome, but he was student.  Tom never looked at his students like that, he was sure of it. 

 

He was really hard right now.

 

Christopher put his other knee between Tom’s legs, then widened his stance, spreading them open.  Tom whimpered. 

 

“Come on,” Christopher coaxed, bringing his hand down from Tom’s hair and across his chest.  “Just tell me.  How many guys.  How many lucky blokes got to put their cocks in you?”  Tom’s face was burning, and Christopher’s hand just kept dropping lower and lower.  A slight pause between his hips, and then he groped Tom’s crotch, hard nails biting.  Tom gasped again, or was it more of a whine, eyes squeezing shut.  “Tell.  Me.”  Christopher growled the words, low and frightening. 

 

Another twisting grope on his privates and he broke.

 

“Six,” he choked out, wheezing.  “Six, there’ve been six.”   

 

“See,” Christopher chuckled.  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?  Now,” he shifted his grip, still strong, but stroking.  Tom tried and failed not to groan.  “Who was the first?  Who popped that sweet arse-cherry, huh?”

 

His chest was heaving in time with Christopher’s hand, eyes half closed as a warm thumping echoed through his skull. 

 

“A…” His voice was so small, so small.  “A friend of my sister’s.”

 

“Ooh, bad professor, stealing your sister’s boyfriend.”

 

“No,” Tom shook his head desperately.  “No, no, just a friend.”

 

“Mmm.”  He sounded disappointed.  “And where’d it happen?”

 

His lips trembled.  “M-my bed.”  And then, though he didn’t know why, he went on explaining.  “My sister had a party, he came upstairs…”

 

“How old were you?”  Gruff, soft.

 

Tom was staring up at the ceiling, fluorescent lights blurring his vision.  “Fifteen.”

 

“Not such a good boy after all.”  Tom shook his head, though he wasn’t sure what he was saying by doing so.  “How old was he?”

 

His throat felt tight.  “Seventeen.”

 

The hand tightened around him.  “Did it hurt?  Your first time…were you sore?”

 

He felt suspended, not quite tethered.  He felt hot everywhere, whether it was from pleasure or humiliation.  

 

“Yes.”

 

Warm lips against his cheek.  “Did you like it?”

 

That’s when he knew he was fighting tears, boiling dangerously behind his eyes. 

 

“Yes,” he said, voice tight.

 

“Course you did.”  Fingers fondled back over his scrotum, fabric bunching.  “What was the second?”

 

He whined.  “Stop, please, just stop, just let me—“

 

“What?”  Christopher interrupted.  “Come?”

 

Tom jaw cracked, struggling with one simple word.  “ _Go_.  Let me go, please.”

 

“Oh, you don’t want that.”  Tom’s chest shook, fighting sobs.  “The second.  Now.”  He started stroking again, rubbing through trousers that were serving increasingly little protection. 

 

He took a breath.  “Seventeen.  We were both on the rugby team.” 

 

“Third.”

 

“University dormitory, he was across the hall.  We were together nearly a year.”

 

“Fourth.”

 

“Summer abroad, some…Norwegian.”  He breath hitched as Christopher managed to catch the head of his cock between finger and thumb. 

 

“’Nearly’ a year, you said.  Had you already broken up with dorm guy, or did fucking the Norwegian put an end to that little romance?”  

 

He bit his lip, hands clenching behind his back as that old but still familiar plume of shame unfurled in his stomach. 

 

“Tsk, tsk,” Christopher clucked at him, and nipped along his neck below his right ear.  “Bad, naughty, _wicked_ teacher.  Not just a fag, but a slut too.”  This time, it was the hand that held his wrists that clenched, squeezing bones together grindingly.  “Now who was five?”

 

“…Another student.  We had a lot of the same classes, ended up in bed together.  Kept at it till…we stopped having classes together.”  His eyes were prickling, his face was hot and bright red, he was sure.  He could barely speak through his constricting throat. 

 

“And six?”  The voice was almost gentle. 

 

He was trembling, everywhere, eyes blinking rapidly trying to keep tears at bay. 

 

“M—“ His voice shook, and his lips would barely open, stammering.  “My pr—professor.”  And then the tears did fall, hot and salty across his face. 

 

Christopher was laughing.  “I knew it.  Did you get those top marks you wanted?  Need an extension on a essay?” 

 

“I didn’t do it for the grade,” Tom ground out, voice oddly strong after all this, though he still avoided looking anywhere but the wall. 

 

Christopher was quiet a moment.  “What did he teach?”         

 

Tom sniffed, painfully aware that he couldn’t even raise a sleeve to wipe his face, momentary fortitude apparently gone as quickly as it’s come.  “Shakespeare.”  It was almost a whisper. 

 

“Right.  Of course.”  The hand on him was almost tender now, warm and firm against his aching hardness, but the voice was cruelly mocking.  “Did he woo you?  Read you sonnets?”  The arm behind him pulled, pushing him into the boy…man…one that held him.  “Isn’t there some gay sonnet?  The one everyone points to, says Shakespeare was a poofter?” 

 

Tom was basically pressed against Christopher’s firm chest, his head resting on his shoulder. 

 

“There’s… Sonnet 20, but really the whole Fair Youth sequence is…he wrote a hundred and fifty-four poems to—“

 

“Ugh, a hundred and fifty four, that’s ridiculous.  Just pick one.”

 

“What?”  The hand between his legs tormented him.  He wanted it to stop, he wanted more, and he didn’t much care which he got one way or the other.

 

“Tell me one.”

 

He blinked mutely, panting into cotton t-shirt. 

 

“Being your slave, what should I do…but tend upon the hours and times of your desire.” he croaked.  Christopher groaned, and he felt it reverberate against him.  “I have no precious time at all to spend, nor services to do, till you require.  Nor dare I—“

 

Before he even knew his hands were free, he was being pushed back, till he lay awkwardly on the unclear desk.

 

“—I chide the world-without-end hour…whilst I…my sovereign…” 

 

He thought he’d pretty much gotten the tears under control, but now there came fresh ones, coming from deep inside, from places he wasn’t even sure he recognized. 

 

“…Watch the clock for you, nor think the bitterness of absence s—ah,” he broke off, feeling the warm wetness of a mouth join the hand on his still trapped cock through his trousers, and soon his own wetness joined it.  “…Sour.  When you have bid your s…servant once adieu.  Nor dare I question—“

 

There was a noise, a soft _fap_ -ing sound.  He lifted his head slightly, and though he didn’t look long, and he didn’t see much, he perceived enough to know what the sound was. 

 

“Nor dare I question,” he repeated, voice breaking.  “With my jealous thought, where you may be, or your affairs suppose.  But, like a sad slave…” He bit his lip, holding back a sob.  “Stay and think of naught, save…where you are—“

 

There was a low moan, not from him, and Christopher pulled his mouth away.  “How happy you make those,” he whispered.  Then, he felt something wet spill on the front of his trousers. 

 

With that, and Christopher’s hand working him, he came.

 

“So true a fool is love,” he gasped, arching.  “That in your will, though you do anything…” He slumped back to desk, spent, but hardly released, anxiety still fluttering in his ribcage, dried tears marking his face.  “He thinks no ill.” 

 

He felt a rubbing on his inner thigh, Christopher drying his moistened palm, he realized after a moment. 

 

“That was beautiful,” Christopher said.  “Glad you learned something from good old Professor Number Six.”  He leaned over Tom, careful not to touch his stained trousers.  “With all that…’experience’,” he chortled.  “It must be nice to know there’s still something to look forward to, hmm?”

 

Tom just lay there, staring into the young man’s face for the first time since…since this had started.  He felt sluggish, yet wired.  Like he was full of energy, but couldn’t move.  Like he was drugged. 

 

“What…” he murmured indistinctly, almost barely caring.  “Look…forward to…”

 

Christopher grinned, wide and toothy. 

 

“Why, lucky Number Seven, of course.”  And then he grabbed him by the chin and kissed him, hard.  A second later he was gone.  Footsteps, rustling, a creaking door.

 

“See you on Monday, Professor.”

 

The door slammed shut. 

 

Tom still hadn’t moved.  He felt wet and sticky and in more ways than one. 

 

He stared up at the lights, letting spots form in front of his eyes.  Then, he lifted a hand to his mouth, and sobbed.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

       


	2. In which Chris reverses a classic trope and Tom's ass pays the price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warnings for abuse and non-con caning, otherwise...well, you read the first chapter right?
> 
> Tom cries some more.

The most unsettling thing was how normally Christopher acted the next week.  Tom kept waiting for something to happen, or at least some sign that something _had_ happened, but there was nothing.  He left every day after class with the rest of the students with hardly a glance in Tom’s direction.  In fact, he acted exactly the way he always had, to the point that Tom was starting to wonder if he’d lost his mind and hallucinated the whole thing.  If it weren’t for his stained trousers lying at the bottom of his hamper, he might even have started to believe it.

 

It was Wednesday night when he realized.  Friday.  He must be waiting for Friday again, for empty halls and eager-to-leave students. 

 

Which was why on Friday afternoon when the bell rang, Tom was already packing his things and on the way out the door.  He was startled a moment when he saw Christopher walking out ahead of him, making his way swiftly to the back entrance that led to the student parking lot.  He shook himself, and went in the opposite direction.  Maybe he was wrong; maybe Christopher had lost interest, or it was really just a one-time thing, a prank to mess with the new teacher. 

 

By the time he approached his car, he’d managed to convince himself, and therefore thought nothing of it when reached into his pocket and found something missing.  He sighed. 

 

“Everything all right, Tom?” Tilda, one of the Social Studies professors, called after him as he spun around and headed back.

 

“Forgot my keys,” he shouted over his shoulder with a self-deprecating laugh. 

 

He got back to his classroom, plopped his briefcase on the floor by his desk, and hurriedly started shuffling through the drawers.  He didn’t remember taking them out; maybe they’d fallen somewhere? 

 

He was just about to check underneath when he heard a soft jingling sound.  He looked up.

 

Christopher was at his usual seat watching him, a set of keys spinning lazily round one of his fingers.

 

“Looking for these, Professor?”

 

Tom’s heart thudded, and his breath quickened.  He could almost feel the adrenaline start flooding his veins, screaming at him, _fight or flight, fight or flight_. 

 

The choice seemed obvious.

 

He bolted for the door. 

 

Suddenly, impossibly, Christopher was in front of him, slamming the door shut, so close he could feel the wind from it.  Standing between Tom and the door, Christopher looked straight him, then reached behind him, and turned the bolt, locking it. 

 

_Thump, thump, thump._

Christopher clicked his tongue, wagging the finger holding Tom’s keys.  “Naughty, naughty Professor.”  He slipped Tom’s keys into his pocket.  “What are we going to do with you?”

 

Tom gulped. 

 

“Please,” he lifted a hand in front of him, placating.  “Please, just—“

 

“Quiet,” Christopher snapped.  Tom dropped his hand.  There was roaring in his ears.  Christopher moved toward him and Tom backed up till he felt the desk hit behind him, and then Christopher hand was gripping his jaw, pulling him so they were eye to eye.  “I think teacher needs to be taught a lesson,” he rumbled.  Then he squeezed tighter, startling a sharp cry from Tom as bones ground painfully. 

 

A moment later, he shoved Tom’s head away, and Tom had only a second to gasp, unclenching his jaw, before he was pulled him to front of the desk, placed into much the same position they’d started in last time.  Then, Christopher was gone, wandering toward the cabinets at the back of the classroom.

 

“You know, there’s all sort of weird shit in here, stuff that got tossed in years ago and forgot about.  I go through the storage round the school sometimes, it’s like a bloody archaeological dig, y’know?”  He spoke with his back turned, rummaging around the deep, cluttered spaces.  Tom eyed the door.  It wasn’t that far, he could—  “I wouldn’t.”  Tom eyes snapped back on Christopher.  “You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”  Tom’s finger’s clenched against the desk, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to run.  He felt frozen.  “Here it is,” Christopher said last, turning.  “Neat, huh?”

 

It was like everything stopped, time turning to gel in the room.  Christopher was holding a cane.  A bloody rattan cane, like something out of some horrific period film. 

 

And now he was walking towards him. 

 

“Pull down your pants, and bend over the desk.”  He said it like he was ordering a pizza. 

 

Everything felt tight, like he had to unlock each individual muscle, his eyes held fixed. 

 

“ _No_.” 

 

Christopher’s face went hard.  Tom lifted his chin. 

 

“What did you say?”

 

“No,” Tom repeated, shaking.  “I am not goin—“

 

The cane came down on the desk with a deafening crash, and Tom jumped clean off, heart pounding.  Then a hand was clenching tight in his hair while another, holding the cane in two fingers, pulled his waistband. 

 

“Pull them down or I will rip them off you.”

 

Christopher’s face was bare inches away, all smooth skinned and blue-eyed beauty. 

 

Tom couldn’t remember ever being this scared. 

 

Trembling, he reached for his belt.  When he’d unzipped his trousers, Christopher spun him around to face the desk, gripped at the back of his waistband, and did most of the pulling himself.

 

“Now bend over.” 

 

Tom didn’t move.  He kept shaking his head over and over again, though maybe that was just a desperate attempt to negate reality.  If this was reality.  When a forceful hand pushed on his back and slammed him down on the desk, he wasn’t even surprised. 

 

There was a low whistle.  “I gotta say Professor, those slut trousers you wear don’t come close to doing this arse justice.”  Tom felt something long and hard and thin rest against his backside and shivered.  “You ever been caned before, Professor?”

 

Tom swallowed thickly.  “No.”

 

“That is a damn shame, mate.  You’re gonna look gorgeous.  Well, I guess that makes me special then.  Now, how many licks should you get, hmm?”  He ran the cane up and down over Tom’s bared haunches.  “For being such an ungrateful, rude, and wicked piece of slut whore?  Hmm?  Any suggestions?”  The cane pressed into his arse.  “I think an even dozen will do.  Since I’m feeling so nice.”    

 

That was all the warning he got before the first hard, stinging smack and he slammed forward into the desk with sharp cry. 

 

“One.”

 

All at once, he was struggling, trying to push himself up from the desk.  The hand at his back merely fisted into his jacket and pinned him more firmly as the next hit struck.  He screamed.

 

“Two.” 

 

Desperately he tried to scramble up on to the desk to escape, but again the fist at his back pulled him back and—

 

“Three.”

 

“Stop!  Stop, you ca—” His words bled uselessly into a incoherent screech as he was struck again. 

 

“Four.” 

 

“Enough!” He shrieked, voice cracking. “Enough! _Enou_ —“

 

_Smack!_   “Five.”

 

He kicked out, vaguely aiming for a knee, but Christopher just used his own leg to pin Tom’s against the desk.  He grabbed for something, anything on the desk to throw, but there was nothing he could reach.    

 

_Smack!_   “Six.”

 

He reached behind, trying to scratch and claw at the hand that pushed down on him, but the angle was bad and Christopher barely seemed to notice. 

 

_Smack!_   “Seven” 

 

“ _NO!_ ” he howled, frantic hands moving to protect his abused backside. 

 

_Smack!_  

 

Tom withdrew his hands with a hopeless cry, nursing the bruised knuckles.

 

“Eight.”  _Smack!_   “Nine.”

 

Tom was whimpering now, smarting hands clutched under his chin.

 

 “Ten.”

 

He made another attempt to push up, pathetically weak. 

 

“Eleven.”

 

He shook, holding back sobs. 

 

“Twelve.”

 

He closed his eyes and started crying.  He was dizzy, hot, and he could hardly believe the pain.  He felt flayed.   

 

Christopher sighed. 

 

“Well, Professor, you didn’t behave very well through that, now did you?”  Tom sniffed, softly weeping into his desk.  “I think you need another dozen.”

 

“ _NO!”_   The sound tore from his throat and pushed up with all his might.  Christopher slammed him back down, hard enough to knock the wind from him.  “No, no, no, no, no,” he chanted, quieter.

 

“Now you listen here,” Christopher said, leaning over till Tom could almost feel his weight pressing down on him.  “I’m gonna keep this up till you stop being such a brat.  You can either be good,” he pushed the cane against Tom’s arse.  “Or I will beat you black.  You hear me?  Black.”  His voice softened.  “You should see yourself right now, Professor.  Such a pretty red.  Such a pretty arse.”  Tom felt breath behind his ear.  “Pretty little professor, you just need a little lesson, don’t you?  I know you’ll be good.  Eventually.  So, what’ll it be?  Twelve more?  Or twenty-four?  Or forty-eight?  Hmm?” 

 

Tom stared unblinking at nothing, breathing short and shallow and eyes full of tears.

 

“Ok,” he said after a moment, voice hoarse.  “Ok, ok, ok, just,” he whispered.  “Just…give me a second.” 

 

“You’ll be good?”  Christopher pressed, and Tom nodded.  “Alright,” and he stepped back, leaving Tom alone on the desk, unmoving.  “You keep still, and try to be quiet, you hear me?”

 

Tom thought he might hyperventilate. 

 

“Just,” he started.  “Just hang on, just…” He threaded his fingers through his hair and pressed his forehead into the desk.  “… _FUCK!”_ he shouted.  “ _Fuck_ , fuck, fuck.”  His hands in hair clenched and smothered his sobs.

 

_SMACK!_   “One.”

 

Tom squealed behind his lips and one foot shot up behind him, but he forced it back down.  Apparently, not having to hold him down let Christopher hit harder.  Tom bit his lip, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to breathe. 

 

He lost track of the blows, hardly listening to Christopher’s even counting.  His arse clenched and unclenched almost spasmodically, and it seemed as though every part of him was twitching out of time with every other part.  Once in a while he failed to stay quiet, letting out a startled shriek.  He was lost, adrift in a sea of pain. 

 

Slowly, the fog started to clear.

 

“Ten…Eleven…Twelve.” 

 

Tom let out the breath he hadn’t know he was holding, his fingers tingling as they released their grip. 

 

_SMACK!_

 

Tom screeched, his knee popping up and slamming painfully into the desk. 

 

“Thirteen.  Decided to make it a baker’s dozen,” Christopher commented playfully, and then the tip of the cane was running up the inside of his bare thigh. 

 

Tom abruptly had the urge to be ill and swallowed bile as he clenched his fists beside him at either side of his head. 

 

“You really look so good like this,” Christopher murmured as the cane scratched its way just behind his scrotum and up between his arsecheeks.  “I almost want to take a picture.” 

 

He felt fresh tears behind his eyes, though his face didn’t even bother to blush.  He felt cold. 

 

A clattering, and the cane was gone, followed by the sound of a zipper.  A moment later he felt something warm and wet dragging shallowly along the crack of his arse.  He blinked, and felt tears fall down his face with a strange detachment, as though he were just watching raindrops fall from a tree branch somewhere very far away. 

 

Christopher was touching his arse with the head of his penis, making lines and squiggles over the aching skin, often leaving strands of pre-cum in his wake. 

 

“Hey, Professor,” Christopher said casually.  “Can you guess what I’m spelling?”

 

A second later Tom felt a large, deliberate, semi-circle across his left cheek. 

 

“C”, he said flatly.

 

“Good job Professor, gold star.  How ‘bout this one?”

 

Two vertical, perpendicular lines, a horizontal line between them. 

 

“H”, he whispered, voice hitching. 

 

“That’s right, man, you’re good at this.  You think if I spelled out slut, you could tell?”  Tom heard a familiar _fap_ -ing sound.  “How do you feel about tattoos, Professor?  I think you’d look great with _Chris Hemsworth’s Faggot Slut_ inked on your arse, don’t you?  Although,” he went on, sounding strained.  “Then I wouldn’t get to mark up all that perfect skin.  You’d look so much better in bruises anyway.  Yeah…so fucking good.”

 

Tom twitched when Christopher came on his arse, the hot, sticky issuance stinging the sensitized flesh.  A minute later, a set of keys fell clanging right in front of his face. 

 

The next thing he was aware of was the sound of the door opening. 

 

“See you on Monday, Professor.”

 

_Thump, click._

 

He turned his head, staring at the closed door with a kind of fascination. 

 

Slowly, he took a breath, and sat up on his elbows, wincing.  At least there wouldn’t be any chance of mistaking whether this had actually happened.  He pushed up, only to find his legs could barely support his weight.  He leaned into his palms against the desk, trying to do something, anything, but shudder from pain. 

 

His pants and trousers were bunched around his ankles, and his lip quivered at the thought of bending over to pull them up.  Carefully, he slid his feet back along the floor, veering to one side till he could brace himself on one arm, reaching down with the other. 

 

He’d just grabbed a handful of fabric when his foot clattered against something.  He glanced back around and between his legs, and saw the cane laying innocuously on floor. 

 

A long moment, he just breathed, heart beating. 

 

Well.  He’d get that in a minute.      

 


	3. In which full on sex actually happens and the cane makes unexpected final appearance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris fucks Tom in more ways than one and Tom manages to get something of an edge on Chris. Which...may not actually be a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first things first: this chapter contains anal, oral, and object insertion--all of the non-con variety (for those who have literally just arrived). Also some definite mind fuckery and psychological drama. 
> 
> Second: there's been some comments asking/speculating/requesting about where this fic is going to go (which is AWESOME), but unfortunately, I'm not really sure at this point and can't really make any promises. So far, this fic seems more of the "telling me sternly what to write" as opposed to the "politely waiting for direction" type. What I will say is this: I like happy endings, so chances are if I stick with this long enough, it'll meander around to that. But, for the time being, things are probably going to get worse before they get better. Possibly much, much worse. 
> 
> Lastly: traditionally, I've tried to only post fics once I've completed them, which pretty much ends up meaning I never post anything. This is the first multi-chapter fic I'm posting as I go. I'm hoping that will actually spur me on to work on it, but there's no way to know at this point. What I will say, is that I will always post as soon as I've finished a chapter, after one read through (which might mean that it sucks, but...I'm trying something new, ok?) Anyway, you guys have been great, and I hope you end up getting some enjoyment from whatever it is I do end up getting to. I love hearing your guy's thoughts and ideas, even though I can't really say much on the topic myself right now. 
> 
> Anyway, enough with this bullshit. On with the terrible torment of someone we ostensibly like!

Tom tore off his jacket and tie, dropping his briefcase haphazardly in the hall, and headed straight for the medicine cabinet. 

 

The drive home had been agony.  It was a miracle he hadn’t passed out or crashed into something. 

 

He first took two aspirin, then pulled out the antiseptic cream and gingerly maneuvered out of his trousers and underwear.  He turned, looking over his shoulder to check the mirror. 

 

_Shit._

 

It was bad.  Really bad.  He was even bleeding in places. 

 

He turned on the sink, lip quivering, and reached for a clean washcloth.  He needed to get the dried cum off first. 

 

He winced at the first contact, but forced himself to rub over his wounds with the wet cloth thoroughly, even as his face scrunched up and he started whimpering. 

 

When he looked again, he was relieved to see that the places where skin had broken were not too deep or wide, and in fact had already stopped bleeding.  He grabbed the antiseptic and squeezed nearly a third of the tube into his hand, then coated it liberally all over his rear end.  He then pulled off his shoes and trousers, took the aspirin and antiseptic along with a glass of water into his bedroom, and, placing his supplies on his nightstand, fell face first onto the mattress. 

 

He wasn’t sure if he slept exactly, but he didn’t move till morning. 

 

He was roused by a phone ringing.  He stumbled haltingly out to where he’d left his jacket, managing to grab his mobile in time. 

 

“Tom!” said the steady voice on the other end.

 

“Tilda,” he replied, trying to work out the frog in his throat. 

 

“Just calling to check in, I was thinking I could pick you up around twelve?  No need to get there for the “early crowd”, y’know?”

 

Tom blinked.  “W…what?”

 

“Faculty picnic, Tom,” Tilda replied, sounding bemused.  “I was going to drive you, since you haven’t been over there be—“

 

“Right, right, sorry, sorry, I…” He’d completely forgotten.  Obviously. 

 

“You alright, Tom?  You sound a little…off.” 

 

He was just about to say he was fine, when he thought of a much better idea. 

 

“Actually, I…think I’ve come down with something,” he said, trying to sound miserable, which wasn’t difficult.

 

“Oh no,” Tilda commented with genuine concern.  “Are you ok?  Do you need anything?  I could come by and—“

 

“No, no,” he said quickly.  “Just a bit of bug.  Nothing a day in bed won’t fix.”  He hoped. 

 

“Alright.  You sure I can’t bring you anything?  Soup, drugs.  A cuppa tea with a truly obscene amount of gin in it?”

 

Tom laughed in spite of himself.  “No, thank you.  I’m all stocked, really.”

 

“Ok, well don’t hesitate to give me a call if you change your mind.  I hate these “social occasions”, just give me an excuse and I’ll come play nursemaid.”

 

Tom bit his lip.  He suddenly felt like crying.  “Thanks.”

 

“Well, feel better.”

 

He felt stupid saying thank you again, but he did it anyway, then hung up.  He’d actually been looking forward to the picnic, hoping to get to know the rest of the faculty better, try and make friends. 

 

Well.  It was a stupid idea anyway. 

 

He took the time to plug his phone in to recharge, piss, and put a fresh coat of antiseptic on his arse.  The knuckles on one hand were starting to swell, so he grabbed an icepack from the freezer.  Then he went straight back to bed.   

 

He got up a couple more times that day, to eat or use the loo.  Other than that, he barely moved. 

 

When he woke Sunday, he actually managed to get up, make breakfast, and eat it.  He ate in bed, lying on his stomach, but still.  The swelling on his hand had gone down significantly, which was really the closest thing to actual good news, since he then remembered he had papers to grade.  He dumped his dishes in the sink and brought his briefcase back to bed with him.  If he’d ever envisioned marking assignments in bed half naked, it certainly wasn’t like this.  Still, the work almost took his mind off things. 

 

Then he got to Chris Hemsworth’s. 

 

Dear god.  He’d almost forgotten he was a student. 

 

He read over the essay.  It was fine.  Decent work.  What he’d come to expect from him, based on previous assignments. 

 

He held his pen unsteadily, eyes blurring.  He had the sudden, stupid temptation to give him a bad mark, just because he could. 

 

It was ridiculous.  What if his parents made a fuss?  What if he had to justify it to the headmaster?

 

What if Christopher caned him again?

 

He gave him a B, which was deserved, then hesitated over the page before making a single, deliberate ‘minus’ sign. 

 

Another moment, and he changed it to a plus. 

 

He sighed, frustrated, and tossed it in the pile of graded papers.  He finished the rest at a slightly more hurried pace, stuck them back in his briefcase, and dropped it on the floor. 

 

He didn’t do anything else that day. 

 

Monday morning he spent the time he normally spent running moving with deliberate care through his shower and trying to make himself look normal.  He was mostly successful, and everyone chalked up his pallor to his weekend “illness.”  He still hurt like hell.  It hurt to stand and it hurt more to sit, but there was nothing to be done about that.  He schooled his features and endured. 

 

Tuesday night he finally picked up his clothes and tossed them in the hamper, taking unwanted note of the streaks of red on his underwear. 

 

Wednesday night he woke up with a hard on.  He would have thought it impossible, that he could get hard when he was still in so much pain, but somehow it didn’t work that way.  In fact, as he reached a hand between his legs, the aching in his arse seemed to heighten the pleasure elsewhere, and soon he was panting into his pillow as he played with his nipples, legs splaying wantonly. 

 

He came, and tried to ignore the whispered echoes in his head, a taunting voice that called him _Professor_. 

 

Thursday night he lay awake, fretfully thinking of the day to come. 

 

Or was that excitement?

 

_You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself the first time._

 

He shook his head, futilely arguing with the voices in his head. 

 

_I didn’t want—_

_Oh yeah, I can just see it now.  ‘It’s not my fault Your Honor, the seventeen year old **made** me come in my pants.’  _

 

He hid his face, shame crackling over him even in complete solitude.  It sounded ridiculous.  And he couldn’t deny that Christopher was…was…

 

_Gorgeous?  A living wet dream?  Like something carved by Michelangelo?_

His ears buzzed, face hot. 

 

_He’s going to fuck you either way, you know.  You might as well enjoy it._

That was insane.  Absolutely mental.  But, one thing was certain. 

 

Tom was through fighting battles he couldn’t win.

 

 

 

 

 

The bell rang on Friday and Tom sat at his desk quietly marking the latest assignments.  He nodded goodbye to some students, exchanged a few ‘have a good weekends’, then got back to work.  Christopher had paused in front of his desk on his way out, but that was all. 

 

Tom looked at the clock.  It had been nearly thirty minutes since school got out.  He went back to grading. 

 

Some time later, there was a click, and he looked up.  Christopher had come in, and was now locking the door behind him.  Tom put his things in his briefcase, closed it, and tucked it under his desk.  He then clasped his hands in front of him on the desk and turned his head, looking at Christopher. 

 

He waited. 

 

Christopher stared at him, head tilted, almost inquisitive. 

 

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you today, Professor?” he asked after a moment. 

 

Tom didn’t say anything. 

 

He prowled over to him, pulled Tom’s chair out from his desk, and leaned over him.  The were eye-to-eye, knee-to-knee. 

 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Christopher growled. 

 

Tom blinked, dropping his gaze, nodding slightly, and swallowed.  Then, he lifted his eyes back to Christopher’s. 

 

“How do you want me?”  He spoke flat.  It hardly sounded like a question. 

 

Christopher’s eyes narrowed.  Then, suddenly, he grinned, baring his teeth.  

 

“You that eager for my cock, Professor?”

 

Tom didn’t even twitch. 

 

“I’m tired of fighting.  I’ll do what you want.  Just tell me.” 

 

Christopher regarded him a moment, then sprung back, walking backwards several paces.  He stopped, and ran his eyes over Tom. 

 

“I want you naked.”  His tone was threatening, daring Tom to argue. 

 

Tom stood and took off his jacket, folding it carefully and placing it on his chair.  He did the same with his shirt and tie.  Then he took off his shoes. 

 

“Think you could hurry it up, Professor,” Christopher commented wryly. 

 

Tom glanced up at him.  “You’ve already ruined one good pair of trousers, and none of my other articles came out splendidly from our encounters.  I’m not made of money.  I like to take care of what I have.” 

 

Christopher frowned darkly, but didn’t say anything. 

 

He placed his shoes neatly under the desk, then undid his trousers and pulled them off.  Once they were placed just as neatly, he took off his underwear, and stacked them on top of the pile. 

 

Christopher was looking at him obviously, casually raking over every inch of exposed skin, though his face betrayed nothing.  He crooked a finger.  Tom went to him. 

 

He eyed Tom, arms crossed over his chest.  Tom left his arms at his sides. 

 

“Your arse still hurt?” he asked after a minute. 

 

“Yes,” Tom answered, simply. 

 

“How much?” His voice lilted, making it sound like he wasn’t that interested in the answer. 

 

“Not as much as it did.  But still quite a lot.”

 

“I could cane you again, right now,” Christopher said blandly.

 

“I know.”

 

“Bend over the desk.”

 

Tom walked around the front of the desk, and started moving everything on top to the far sides. 

 

“You’re stalling,” Christopher said over his shoulder.

 

“I had quite the mess to clean up the last time, I’m just being practical.”  And in very little time, he was done.  He bent over, stomach resting flat. 

 

Footsteps, and then a finger drew lazily across is bum. 

 

“You still do look awfully red, mate.”  Tom said nothing.  “Spread your legs.”  Tom did.  “Wider, mate, come on, faggot slut like you knows what I’m after.” 

 

Tom spread his legs wider, bracing his legs, and tilted his hips up.  A second later, there was a finger being pushed into him.  He breathed in hard through his nose, but otherwise stayed quiet.  Then two fingers, and his breath hitched.

 

“Didn’t you—“ he cut himself off, biting his lip. 

 

“What, mate,” Christopher prompted, shoving his fingers deeper. 

 

Tom swallowed.  “Didn’t you bring any lube?”

 

“Naw,” Christopher said nonchalantly, scissoring his dry fingers inside Tom’s arse.  “Thought this’d be more fun.”

 

Tom closed his eyes, bowing his head as the burn and stretch intensified.

 

“Problem, Professor?” Christopher taunted.     

 

“No,” Tom replied, hating the choked sound of his voice.  “You’re going to rape me, no need to be courteous about it.” 

 

“Oh, is that what’s happening?”  Christopher shoved forced a third finger in as Tom hissed through his teeth.  “No, I think this is exactl _y_ what you want.  This way, you get to have me fuck you, but you don’t have to feel bad about it.  Right?  Not your fault.  You get all of the fun, with none of the responsibility.”

 

Tom’s throat felt hard.  “If that’s my plan,” he said tightly.  “It’s a terrible one, as it isn’t remotely working.”   

 

“Aww,” Christopher mocked, spreading his fingers and twisting them.  “Is poor Professor feeling guilty?  Maybe that’s cause he knows I’m right.  Or,” he thrust his fingers in to the hilt.  “Are you still pretending you don’t want me?”

 

Tom blinked, his eyes uncomfortably dry. 

 

“No.  I’m done pretending.”

 

“Glad to hear it, Professor,” and he crooked his fingers and pressed against Tom’s prostate. 

 

Tom shuddered. Well.  He’d already been getting hard anyway.  At least now he had an excuse.

 

Maybe Christopher was right afterall. 

 

“That geezer professor ever fuck you like this?  Bend you over his desk and take you hard and dry?” Christopher questioned as he continued painfully stretching un-lubricated muscle. 

 

“No,” Tom answered softly.  “He always took…great care with me.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll bet he took real good care.  Were you a grateful little pet?  You suck his cock real good, for all that _care_?” 

 

“As a matter of fact,” Tom said, tongue clicking over the _t_.  “I did.” 

 

“Ooh, Professor, you naughty thing,” Christopher chided, abruptly pulling his fingers out.  Tom felt his anus flare, skin cracking uncomfortably.  There was zipping and rustling and the sound of condom wrapper being ripped open.  Then Christopher spread his tender cheeks apart, and blew. 

 

Tom swallowed as the dry air rushed over his dry skin, sphincter clenching. 

 

Suddenly, he was being turned over, knees pushed back till his hole and erection were openly exposed.  He let his hands drop to his sides, shoulder blades digging uncomfortably into the flat wood of the desk. 

 

Tom watched with hooded eyes as Christopher lined up, touching the head of his penis against his entrance.  Tom was uneasily aware of both the fact that his muscles had loosened enough that they already opened around the very tip of their would-be intruder, and that he was far, far too dry.  Around his opening and along the passage inside, he felt brittle, like old paper, easily cracked.

 

That didn’t bode well.

 

Christopher glanced at Tom’s erection against his stomach, and smirked at him. 

 

“How much do you want my cock right now, faggot?”

 

“Not at all,” Tom responded promptly. 

 

Christopher frowned at that, brow furrowing.  He didn’t look angry, he looked…confused.  All of a sudden, he appeared impossibly young.  He had a hand under Tom’s knee, and its grip loosened somewhat as his head bowed slightly.  For a moment, Tom thought he might not actually do it, that he might stop. 

 

The moment passed when he grabbed under both of Tom’s knees, pulling him forward as he thrust in with his hips. 

 

The only thought that crossed Tom’s mind, staring at the ceiling as he was hit with sharp, stabbing pain was, _of course.  Of course he did it._

 

It took three hard thrusts for Christopher to bury himself in Tom, catching gratingly despite the loosened muscle.  Then he pulled out and did it again, this time making it almost all the way with the first push. 

 

The sharp pain was mostly at the entrance, where Tom was fairly sure he’d torn some.  That ebbed and flowed as Christopher worked in him.  Inside though, he was being rubbed raw, and that only got steadily worse. 

 

The fourth time Christopher shoved inside him, Tom cried out loud, where before there had only been soft gasps and whimpers.  He grit his teeth and clenched his fists, and it went on and on and on.  It wasn’t anything particular when he started screaming, just the unending build of agony. 

 

“Jerk yourself off.”

 

A tear ran out the corner of his eye.  He lifted his right hand, flexing it, before reaching for himself. 

 

He whimpered, face crumpling, when he made contact.  He’d nearly forgotten about it, and you’d think with the pain, but—

 

He was still hard, frighteningly so.  God, what was wrong with him. 

 

He started stroking, and just like before, pain and pleasure heightened each other, chasing after one another in a harrowing crescendo.  Winces merged into groans and back again, and he no longer knew what caused his sharp cries and mewling.   

 

“Look at me, Professor.  Watch me fuck you.” 

 

He slowly lowered his gaze.  He was afraid to look between them, to look where…so he settled on Christopher, on his face. 

 

The boy was glowing, flush and radiant, bright hair disheveled round him like a halo.  His lips were pink and wet, his eyes gleamed elatedly, and Tom was suddenly deeply aware of the power and vigor surging between his legs.  Precum started dripping over his fingers    

 

Christopher looked in his eyes, like he was searching for something. 

 

Then he smiled. 

 

Tom came, arching weakly as he spilled onto his stomach.  He dropped his hand limply to his side, vision blurred and unfocussed.  As he came to his senses, he became aware of two things: Christopher’s fingers running through the cum over his abdomen, and Christopher’s cock still hard inside him. 

 

The fingers left, and then Christopher drew out of him all at once, pulling a short cry from his throat.  His arse contracted, sore flesh meeting sore flesh.

 

Then Christopher grabbed him and pulled him off the desk, startling another cry from him as he stumbled to catch his feet. 

 

Sticky fingers wiped themselves on his chest, and then he was spun around.  He had barely a moment to register their new position—now Christopher was backed against the desk with Tom facing him—before hands on his shoulders pushed him to his knees. 

 

He blinked, eyelevel to Christopher’s cock.  There was blood on it, though not as much he would have thought, and soon even that was gone as Christopher ripped off the condom, tossing it with a flick of his wrist into the bin on the left of the desk. 

 

Tom eyed the bin, blinking.  That probably wasn’t smart. 

 

But soon there was a hand in his hair and he had other things to think about. 

 

“Suck me.  Let’s see how good you really are.”

 

Tom eyed the bobbing erection in front of him, and opened his mouth.  He made a good show of it, hollowing his cheeks and teasing with his tongue before swallowing him down.  Christopher fell back against the desk, and groaned.  Tom employed all his learned skill, and soon Christopher was moaning contentedly.  Tom flicked his eyes up and saw Christopher’s eyes were closed, head tilted back languidly.  After a few minutes he dared to lift a hand to Christopher’s ballsack, coaxing gently till he felt them tighten.  He pulled off just enough so Christopher came in his mouth rather than down his throat, and then let the softening member drop from between his lips. 

 

He sat gingerly back, not quite on his heels, mouth full of spunk.  Maybe he could spit out in the bin—

 

_CRACK!_

His head slammed to the side as he was slapped hard across the face.  Cum spewed from his mouth, spraying his lips, cheek, chest and shoulder as well as spattering wetly over the floor.

 

He blinked rapidly, lips panting, as he worked his jaw.  His left cheek stung hotly and tears had sprung to his eyes from the sheer force of the blow.  Shakily, he looked up at Christopher from the corner of his eye. 

 

Christopher was leaning back against the desk looking pleased with himself, a lazy grin sprawled across his lips. 

 

“Wow.  You really are good at that.”  He tucked himself away, and walked easily around the side of the desk.  “I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing what a cock-slut you are, but still, I’m impressed.” 

 

He tossed something to Tom from behind the desk and Tom caught it reflexively.  He looked down at his hands, and found he was holding his own underwear. 

 

“Now clean up your mess,” Christopher instructed, swinging around the other side of the desk and taking a seat on top, crossing his feet at the ankles. 

 

Tom looked back at the white cotton in his hand, and slowly lifted it towards his face. 

 

“Not that,” Christopher barked, irritated.  “The floor.” 

 

Dutifully, Tom lowered his arm, and started wiping at the drops of milky substance spotting the wooden floorboards.  He soon found he had to crawl a ways, as the trail of gunk had gone much farther than he’d initially thought.

 

“So, what was it like?” Christopher asked conversationally. 

 

“What was what like,” Tom responded, flat and exhausted. 

 

“Getting fucked like that.  What was it like.  How did it feel.”  He sounded eager, self-satisfied. 

 

“It hurt.”  He spoke without inflection, scrubbing at the floorboards. 

 

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that,” Christopher prompted scornfully. 

 

“What do you want me to say?” Tom snapped, suddenly angry.  He scrubbed furiously.  “I felt ‘ripped in two’?  Split down the middle by your ‘big, hard cock’?  You want to hear how you’re the largest I’ve ever taken, too?”  He snorted. 

 

The quiet told him he was in trouble, but he couldn’t quite seem to care.  When he was wrenched up to his knees by the hair, he stiffened, but didn’t flinch. 

 

Christopher leaned in close, his grip hurtful and unyielding.  When he spoke though, he was dispassionate, expressing nothing but idle curiosity. 

 

Tom wasn’t deceived. 

 

“Who _was_ largest?” He inquired mildly, almost polite. 

 

Tom shifted his eyes, otherwise immobile, and glared up at his captor hatefully.

 

“The Norwegian,” he spat out, knowing it was a mistake before he did it. 

 

He was unsurprisingly hauled to his feet and slammed face first onto the desk.  The hand still holding his soiled underwear clenched. 

 

“I’m going to cane you again,” Christopher informed him, pressing down on his skull. 

 

“Fine,” Tom practically hissed under his breath, and then Christopher was gone.  Tom stayed where he was.  He should have gotten rid of the bloody cane.  He’d thought about it, but he’d been too scared.  So he’d just put it back where Christopher had gotten it from. 

 

Stupid, stupid. 

 

“I do ask that you show some restraint,” he said detachedly as he heard Christopher approach.  “I barely made it home the last time.  If this is all a devious plot to have me die in a fiery automobile accident, I must say, it’s very creative.” 

 

He waited for the first blow, stony faced and determined to give as little as possible. 

 

The seconds ticked by, and there was only silence. 

 

Then, he felt something stiff poke at his anus. 

 

“Tell me ‘when’,” Christopher directed mockingly, and then the thing was pushed inside. 

 

It was thin, and jabbed irritantly at his roughened passage.  The cane.  Obviously. 

 

Tom fought bile at the back of throat and bit his lips stubbornly, glaring at nothing as fury boiled in his chest. 

 

Christopher’s hand was steady, sliding the cane inside him as smoothly as could be expected given the circumstances.  Inch by inevitable inch, it breached into deeper and deeper places.  It hurt, but hardly anything compared to what he’d already endured.  Instead, he was confronted by the feeling of deep, indeterminable _wrongness_.

 

It hit something somewhere inside him, impossibly deep, and his stomach squirmed, eye twitching, but still he said nothing.  Made not one sound. 

 

Another inch.

 

Another.

 

Suddenly, the cane was pulled out of him, so swiftly that for a moment all he could do the lie there gasping and listen to the odd sound of wood on wood as the cane clattered to the floor. 

 

Then Christopher yanked him up by the arm and spun him round to face him.  He had a peculiar look on his face, somehow wilder.  He stared at Tom for a long, long moment, then grasped him behind the head and kissed his still cum-stained mouth. 

 

The kiss was ferocious and Tom responded immediately, as though his lips and tongue were compelled by the energy they had been assaulted by.  Like magnetism.  The slammed together, open to each other, and when the tips of their tongues touched, it was electricity and Tom felt real, honest arousal spark and ignite inside him. 

 

When Christopher sank to his knees, Tom was already hard and leaking. 

 

Christopher didn’t even try to take him all the way, but it didn’t matter, especially when he looked down and saw his cock sliding in and out of those pale pink lips.  Every wet laving, every swipe of his tongue, was fire.  Christopher pushed him against the desk, pinning his punished arse against edge, and even that did nothing but add fuel to the furnace.  He was undulating, unable to move much against Christopher hold, but his hips tried nonetheless, seeking blindly for release.  

 

He came in Christopher’s mouth, shuddering over himself, clutching at Christopher’s shoulders as shocks trembled through him.  Christopher rose a moment later and, for a second, they just stood eye to eye.  Christopher looked strange, almost…unsettled. 

 

Then he spat cum in Tom’s face. 

 

Tom flinched as the stream hit him, eyes closing against the bombardment, but mouth unfortunately opening in startlement.  He coughed lightly, and was still blinking dumbly when Christopher left the room with out a word. 

 

The door clicked.

 

Tom braced against the desk, softly panting into an empty room. 

 

“See you on Monday,” he mumbled, swallowing thickly.  “Mr. Hemsworth.” 

 

 


	4. In which Tom finds there are no safe spaces and and things get even more rapey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home invasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is a short one, but also kind of intense. PLEASE take special note of this chapter, it has the potential to be extra triggery. 
> 
> Seriously people. Rape. Capital R.

It was several minutes before Tom was able to move, and only stiffly at that.  He was still clutching his underwear, so the first thing he did was use it to wipe the worst of the glop from his face and other places.  He then checked around for any obvious spots of cum, or blood, around the room.  His eyes fell on he cane.  It looked smeared with things he didn’t want to think about. 

 

He got dressed, putting on the dirtied underwear, since he was worried about the state of his arse and better to mark up the already ruined briefs than his trousers. 

 

He left the classroom carefully, checking the halls just to be safe, carrying his briefcase in one hand and the cane deftly by the handle in the other. 

 

He threw the latter in a dumpster behind the school, then walked the long way round to his car. 

 

Home was a shower and another round of first aid.  He was a bit torn, but not as badly as he might have been, considering.  Then he brushed his teeth.  He threw his underwear away and put the rest of his clothes in the pile to be dry-cleaned.  He got into his pajamas, made himself a light supper, and lay on the sofa to watch television. 

 

He headed to bed at the respectable hour of eleven, brushing his teeth again before lying down to go to sleep. 

 

His last conscious thought was how glad he was he’d already gotten started on grading the assignments for Monday, as now there wasn’t much left to do and he still had the whole weekend. 

 

 

 

He woke up crying around two in the morning, then fell back to sleep. 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday night, he woke again in the late/early hours, this time to the feel of a hand pressed over his mouth. 

 

He shot up, eyes flying open, only to be shoved back down into the mattress.  There was a weight pushing down on him, and then the hand left his mouth as two strong hands pinned his wrists beside his head. 

 

“Hey there, Professor, I missed you too.” 

 

Tom’s heart racketed against his ribcage, chest heaving, as his eyes stared wide and dumbfounded into the darkness. 

 

Then he surged, trying to throw Christopher’s heavy weight off of him. 

 

“You complete _lunatic!_ ” he shouted, raving and wild.  “What the hell are you—!”

 

Christopher squeezed his wrists threateningly.  “Easy there, Professor.”

 

Tom fell back on the bed panting, watching Christopher’s shadowed features warily.

 

“How did you get in here?” he demanded, breathless.

 

“I jimmied open a window.  Nobody saw me, Professor, no need to worry.”  That was the exact opposite reaction Tom thought reasonable to that statement.  “I couldn’t wait,” he said throatily, leaning down to nuzzle Tom’s neck.  “Not after…“

 

Tom swallowed hard.  “It’s a school night,” he whispered uneasily.

 

Christopher chuckled darkly.  “Really, Professor?  You think that’s gonna stop me from fucking you?” 

 

Tom’s nerves hadn’t calmed a bit since he first woke and his head buzzed with unspent adrenalin.  He wanted to run, to run and keep running, as far and fast and for as long as he could. 

 

“Get out,” he whispered, irate and terrified. 

 

“Professor, we’ve talked about this,” Christopher explained, pulling Tom’s hands above his head to hold in one crushing grip.  “You have to be good.  Now, I don’t know what you have around here, but,” and here he hooked a thumb under his belt.  “There’s always something close at hand.  If you need it.” 

 

The pounding in his skull was deafening, and his mouth felt dry. 

 

He dropped his eyes.

 

“Now, are you gonna be a good little professor?”

 

Tom nodded silently. 

 

“There’s a good slag.”  Christopher sat up, unbuckling his belt.  Tom didn’t move, lying limply just as thought Christopher still held him.    

 

When Chrsitopher pulled the belt out through the loops, leather snapping, Tom flinched. 

 

Christopher sniggered.  “Don’t worry, Professor.  Just a little reminder.”  He brought the belt to Tom’s arms still laying above his head, and wound it round.  As he cinched the buckle, Tom’s hands balled into tight fists. 

 

“There we go,” Christopher said lightly, and ripped open Tom’s pajama top, buttons flying.  “Now we can have some fun.” 

 

He grabbed Tom by both nipples and twisted, hard.  Tom screamed, back arching off the bed.  Christopher didn’t stop, just held Tom at those vulnerable nubs, squeezing tightly, so Tom just kept screaming. 

 

Finally, Christopher let him go, and he fell back, whimpering.  Throbbing aches continued running through the abused bits of flesh, pointing stiffly in the open air.  Christopher’s hands ran over his stomach, pausing to hold him at the waist in a way that made their size dangerously apparent.    

 

Then he pulled down his bottoms, dragging them down his legs and dropping them on the floor. 

 

“Spread your legs, knees up.”

 

Tom brought his knees toward his chest, wincing at the exposure despite himself.  He’d started to heal, but he was still quite sore.  His cock lay dangling half-hard against his stomach. 

 

Christopher settled between his legs and ran a nail lightly over his puckered opening.  Then he stuck a finger in.

 

“Wait,” Tom wailed, fighting tears.  “I have…use the lube, it’s right—” he half turned toward the nightstand.

 

“No.”  Christopher spoke with such finality, and Tom fell back, face contorting painfully. 

 

“I can’t,” he begged pitifully.  “Not…not so soon.  Just—” 

 

“Seemed to me you liked it well enough last time” Christopher said blandly, working the finger deeper inside him.  “Didn’t stop you getting hard, coming all over—“

 

“ _FUCK YOU!”_ Tom screamed suddenly, kicking out and hitting Christopher indistinctly in the shoulder.  “Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck—_ “

 

There was a hard slap across his face, and he sniffed, lip quivering. 

 

“Enough of that,” Christopher said, squeezing Tom’s marked backside in warning.  Then there was a thumb running over his lips.  “If you behave though…” he pulled at Tom’s bottom lip.  “I might be generous.” 

 

Tom stared vacantly only a second, then opened his mouth.  The thumb pushed inside and he immediately sucked at it, laving and coating it with as much spittle as he could. 

 

When the thumb pushed inside him it was…marginally better.  Maybe. 

 

“Would you like to slick my cock, too?” Christopher asked mildly, putting on a condom. 

 

Tom nodded weakly. 

 

Christopher crawled up his body till his knees framed his face, then grabbed Tom by the hair and tilted his chin up. 

 

Tom opened his mouth and let him fuck his throat, tears streaming. 

 

Christopher’s cock left his mouth wetly, spit stringing between the tip and Tom’s bruised lips.  As Christopher resumed his place between Tom’s legs, Tom started sobbing. 

 

He slammed into him and Tom shrieked, and then there was nothing else but that.  He didn’t even try to compose himself, surrendering to the burning pain.  He howled and cried and shook uncontrollably, snot and tears staining his face.  He jerked and trembled, throwing his head from side to side—as though that would help him escape. 

 

This time, the agony really was too much, and since Christopher seemed to give him very little thought, he soon lost his arousal, and was left shouting sobbingly into the dark, feeling nothing but pain. 

 

He wondered vaguely about the neighbors; the walls weren’t thin, but still…could anyone hear him?  What would they think?  Would they care?

 

He was suddenly hoping desperately that someone _would_ hear, call the police to see what all the racket was about, the need for rescue far outweighing his shame. 

 

Tom barely noticed when Christopher finished, or even pulled out, only registering when a used condom was plopped unceremoniously just below his chest.  Then there was a gentle hand in his hair and a soft brush of lips at his temple.  Tom’s lip quivered. 

 

“Thanks, Professor.  You always make it so good.” He kissed him again, high on the cheek.

 

Then he was gone, the room left startlingly, expansively empty. 

 

Tom lay unmoving but for soft trembling, mostly quiet except for stifled sniffling.  He blinked against drying tears, slowly becoming aware of how he was still breathing. 

 

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, but eventually he was able to reach up, maneuvering just enough to grab the box of tissues he kept by his bed.  He picked up the condom gingerly, wrapping it in several sheets of tissue paper, and dropped it off the side of the bed.  Then he wiped his face and blew his nose.  He didn’t bother making his way to the washroom, he just stuffed some tissues between the cheeks of his arse and rolled over, hugging a pillow to him and pulling his blankets up over his head. 

 

He buried his face in the pillow and screamed until he fell asleep.   

 

 


	5. In which there is another sonnet and things get messy(er)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classroom blowjobs and minds fucks in the bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for continued non-consensual sexual situations, plus some added mind fuckery.
> 
> And now, here are a couple of notes about tagging.
> 
> First, some of you may notice that I took off the Dubious Consent tag on this fic, because I'm realizing there is really only non-con in this story and I don't want to confuse people. I know people's definitions can be different, but as far as I'm concerned, Tom is a completely unconsenting party in all this. I especially want to make that clear since this next chapter gets kind of...weird. 
> 
> Second, am I supposed to be tagging everything that happens in all the chapters? Like, on the overall story? Cause that seems like I'll end up with a bazillion tags. Sorry for the newbie question, please feel free to answer in comments.

 

Tom spent the week in a haze.  He made polite conversation and smiled when he was smiled at, but in truth he barely registered any of these interactions.  He did his work.  That’s what he focused on.  There was no reason his students should suffer for his…personal problems.  As long as he kept his eyes off the individual sitting in the very back corner of the classroom, his time in class was probably the most enjoyable. 

 

He found himself avoiding the faculty.  He felt badly about that, especially in the case of Tilda, but he just couldn’t bring himself to look any of them in the eye for very long. 

 

He started running again, despite the pain he was still in.  It made him stop thinking, stop feeling, if only for a while. 

 

Next week was Half Term Break, which he probably would be looking forward to more if Sunday’s events hadn’t given him every reason to expect no respite.  Christopher clearly didn’t feel bound by school grounds. 

 

Friday afternoon he sat at his desk as his students flew out of the room, eager to start their holiday.  He was utterly weary.  He made no move to leave, just continued working quietly, reading and scratching his pen detachedly over the pages in front of him. 

 

There was a soft rustling noise.   He looked up.  Christopher was still in his seat, watching him.  He went back to his work. 

 

The minutes passed. 

 

The quiet sound of a throat clearing, and Tom looked up again.  He felt numb. 

 

“Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Hemsworth,” he said, barely above a whisper.

 

“Yeah,” said Christopher, pleasant and dangerous.  “I’m having some trouble with the assignment.  Think you could take a look?”

 

There was long moment as Christopher looked at him expectantly.  Then, Tom pushed back his chair, and stood.  He walked to the door. 

 

He locked it. 

 

Christopher smirked. 

 

He moved to the back of the classroom, the smoothness of his steps seeming out of place with how disjointed he felt. 

 

He reached Christopher’s desk and stopped, gazing impassively down at him. 

 

“What seems to be the problem,” he asked quietly, with little inflection. 

 

Christopher sat back in his seat, turning slightly and spreading his knees. 

 

“I dunno.  It’s just really hard,” he said, voice dripping with suggestion.  Tom glanced at Christopher’s crotch, then back up again.  “Think you can help me, Professor?”

 

“Of course,” Tom said blandly after a moment.  He sank to his knees.  “It’s really quite simple,” he recited monotonously, undoing the front of Christopher’s trousers.  He slipped his fingers into Christopher’s pocket, pulling out a condom.  He ripped open the package and slipped it easily over Christopher’s waiting erection.  “Here, let me show you,” and with that, he swallowed him. 

 

He used no finesse, no tricks.  He took him all the way down his throat, then did it again, and again.  He could hear Christopher moaning.  After a minute or so, he started talking. 

 

“Damn, Professor, you really know how to suck a cock,” Christopher said breathlessly.  “It’s not like you’re the first slut mouth I’ve had, but you are by far the best.  Must’ve had lots of practice, huh?”  Tom just kept on, not even breaking rhythm.  “You know, if this teaching gig falls through, you could have a promising back-up career as a cock-sucking whore.  How many you think you could do in a day?  Could you go every twenty minutes, keep it up for six, eight hours?  You could get thirty, maybe even fifty quid a pop.  That’s not bad money.” 

 

Tom’s face was burning in spite of himself.  He should be done being embarrassed, done caring about all the filthy things that fell from Christopher’s mouth. 

 

“Hey.  Look at me.”  Tom raised his eyes at the command.  “Yeah,” Christopher breathed, gazing at him almost beatifically.  He ran soft fingers through the curls of his hair.  “That’s worth at least fifty quid.”  He grinned, wide and ironic.  “Good thing for me you’re such a slut.” 

 

Then his fingers clenched, snagging the loose locks so the tugged at Tom’s scalp, and he came.  Tom pulled off as the condom filled.  His lips were tingling.  He took some tissues from his pocket, pulled off the condom and wrapped it up, holding the clump awkwardly between three fingers.  Then he put Christopher away, redoing his trousers.  He looked up. 

 

Christopher was watching him, impassive and contented.

 

“Say it,” Christopher said lazily after a moment. 

 

Tom didn’t even blink.  “I’m a cock-sucking whore.” 

 

“Yeah,” Christopher agreed, leaning forward.  He ran his thumb over Tom’s mouth, the pinched his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, pulling just enough to hurt.  “But you’re my cock-sucking whore.  Isn’t that right?”

 

Tom’s eyelids trembled, and he hated the tears that clogged his throat as he spoke.  “Yes.  I’m your cock-sucking whore.” 

 

Christopher released him, leaning back and grabbing his bag. 

 

“Well, I’m afraid that’s all I have time for.”  He started to rise, and Tom got to his feet, stepping back to give him room.  “It’s my dad’s birthday; if I stay any longer I’ll be late.” 

 

“Well,” Tom said hollowly.  “We wouldn’t want that.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Christopher assured him, slinging his bag over his shoulder and running a hand down the side of Tom’s face.  “I’ll make it up to you.” 

 

Tom shivered. 

 

 

 

 

 

That night, he blinked awake as the covers were pulled off his back.  It seemed Christopher was eager to keep his word. 

 

His bottoms were yanked down to his knees, and then hard hands kneaded the globes of his arse.  He was still sore there, even two weeks later, but he didn’t make a sound.  He didn’t even flinch.  His t-shirt was being pushed up as warm kisses worked up his spine.  When the shirt was bunched up under his armpits, the mouth moves to the back of his neck, greedily sucking and biting.

 

The only part of him that moved was his cock, which slowly started to fill.    

 

There was warm breath behind his ear, and Christopher combed through his hair with fingers that were strong but not harsh. 

 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.  I almost got a stiffy, sittin’ around eating birthday cake with my folks.  Can you believe that?”  Tom didn’t answer.  Teeth nipped his earlobe.  “How do you want it?”

 

It took a second for Tom to even decipher the question. 

 

“What?” he demanded, voice quiet and precise. 

 

“How do you want it?  What you want me to do?”  Christopher put his nose at the nape of Tom’s neck and inhaled.  “Tell me.”

 

Tom was suddenly blisteringly angry. 

 

“Like you care,” he spat, jaw grinding. 

 

Christopher paused, everywhere, holding utterly and completely still. 

 

“What?” he asked, and it sounded more a question than a threat. 

 

Tom clenched his fists, and turned to glare over his shoulder.  “Like you care,” he enunciated, each syllable biting.  “ _Anything_ for what I want.” 

 

Christopher had that look of odd confusion on his face again, and it was really becoming increasingly less endearing. 

 

He rolled off of him and sat on the edge of the bed, then pushed Tom over onto his back.  Tom was naked from knees to nipples with an impressive attempt at a hard on against his thigh.  He didn’t remotely care. 

 

“I’ve told you,” he went on recklessly, words pushing tightly through clenched teeth.  “I’ve told you, _what I want_ , you selfish, _stupid_ boy.”  Tears threatened behind his eyes again, but he quashed the feeling, focusing on the nails biting him his palms. 

 

Christopher still looked puzzled, bewildered even.  He watched Tom’s face intently, sparing not a glance for his naked body. 

 

“You…” he started hesitantly.  Then he stood, tall and striking beside the bed.  “Tell me to go,” Christopher said clearly.  “I’ll go.” 

 

Tom stared, dumbfounded.  His brain could hardly process the lunacy that was happening.  It—

 

“I don’t believe you,” Tom whispered, the words tumbling out of him.  Christopher just tilted his head slightly, and said nothing.  “This is a—“ a trick, a trap.  A test, maybe.  And as Tom’s mind whirled, he noted that Christopher had said he would go.  Not that he wouldn’t come back, or what would happen when he did. 

 

Maybe that’s why he said what he said next.

 

Or maybe it was because this might be a chance to, even if he couldn’t get what he really wanted, to get something, something out of this freak show.  Grab some semblance of, if not power exactly, at least some kind of control. 

 

Or maybe he was just hard. 

 

“No,” he said, surprised at how steady his voice was.  “No, I don’t want you to go.”  Christopher’s lips formed a small smile, and he sat back on the bed.  “I want you to fuck me,” Tom said, and his voice did catch this time, but Christopher just grinned and leaned down for a kiss. 

 

It was wet and messy and Tom sucked at Christopher’s tongue as drool leaked from the corner of his mouth.  He couldn’t remember a kiss ever being so filthy. 

 

Christopher pulled away, sitting up with a smug look on his face.  “So, how do you want it?  How do you want me to fuck you, Professor?” 

 

Tom clenched his jaw, the kiss having done nothing to soften the hard rage in his chest, and reached over, slamming open the drawer in his nightstand. 

 

“Use that,” he snapped, throwing a bottle of lube at Christopher’s chest.  It bounced off, but the boy managed to catch it with a little fumbling.  Tom’s eyes flicked over him.  “And take off your shirt.” 

 

Christopher grinned again, setting the tube down on the bed before grabbing his shirt from the back and pulling it over his head. 

 

Tom let himself look, soaking in the smooth, firm chest and defined stomach, trim and compact, but every inch dripping with strength.

 

He kicked off his pajamas, yanked off his shirt, and flipped over to his knees and elbows. 

 

“Get me ready,” he said tersely.

 

He had only a moment to wait and then a smooth, slick finger pushed inside him.

 

He dropped his head, hissing.  God, had it always been this good?  The finger worked in and out and Tom pressed back against it, reveling in the cool moisture coating him.  He still hurt a little inside, but the tears had mostly healed, and despite the pain this was just so, so good. 

 

Two fingers dripping with lube, and he was groaning into his bed sheets, hips circling in time to the penetration.  When they scissored and stretched, it was the glorious subtle ache Tom had always adored. 

 

“More lube,” Tom demanded hoarsely.  The fingers left, but returned quickly.  “Not yet,” Tom directed when Christopher tried to add a third finger.  There was a soft sigh, but he was obeyed.  “Now,” Tom told him some time later, and the addition made him moan even more.  He splayed his legs, arching his back, inviting.  Christopher stretched him wider, turning his fingers and adding even more lubricant.  Tom gave into every sensation practically fucking himself on Christopher’s slick fingers.

 

“How much longer is this gonna take?” Christopher questioned, sounding exasperated, and Tom’s temper snapped even more than it already had.

 

“You’ve spent the last weeks _wreaking_ my arse, you can give me five goddamn minutes!” 

 

Christopher fell silent, and Tom let his head fall back to the bed. 

 

“Alright,” Tom whispered later, when he really couldn’t stand it anymore.  “Slick yourself up, and fuck me.” 

 

Christopher withdrew his fingers, and Tom clenched, savoring how rich and wet he was. 

 

“Shit,” Tom heard softly behind him. 

 

“What,” he asked, turning his head half over his shoulder. 

 

“My condoms, they got—“

 

Tom shook his head slightly, dropping his head again.  “Forget it.  Just fuck me.” 

 

“Why Professor,” Christopher teased.  “That’s not very responsible of you.”

 

Tom snorted.  “Right, cause we’ve been the very example of safe sex thus far.”  The sound of cum splattering across hardwood floor popped up behind his skull, and he shuddered, pushing it away.  “I’m clean,” he said evenly after a moment.  “And if you’re not, then…” He trailed off, swallowing.

 

“What?” Christopher prompted.

 

_Then I’ll get what’s coming to me._

“Just fuck me,” he whispered hollowly.  “Fuck me, come in me.  That’s what I want.” 

 

“Alright,” Christopher said compliantly, and touched a light hand to Tom’s shoulder.  “Turn over.”

 

“ _What?”_    Tom turning, glaring over his shoulder.

 

“I want to see your face,” Christopher cajoled, almost plaintively. 

 

“This is what I want,” Tom snapped, unforgiving. 

 

“I want to see your face,” Christopher repeated.  His tone remained the same, but the hand at Tom’s shoulder tightened. 

 

Tom breathed out hard through his nose.  “Fine.”  He rolled over, spreading his knees.  “Now fuck me.”  Christopher positioned himself, starting to push in.  “Slowly,” Tom berated.  Christopher paused, repositioned slightly, and then started to sink down gradually.  “Yes,” Tom hissed, hot pleasure blooming inside him.  “Yes, like that. 

 

It was delicious.  Christopher took him steadily, gliding in and out of him with controlled force as sweat glistening on his bare skin.  Tom lifted his hips to meet him, rolling them in smooth circles around hardness that punctured him.  He gasped breathlessly and moaned deeply, eyes falling closed in contentment.  He guided Christopher to the perfect angle, the perfect pace, the perfect everything.  It was a warm haze of pleasure with bright bursts of pleasure in between.  He didn’t want to touch his cock yet, but he ran his hands over his chest, soft, fluttering touches that both teased and soothed.

 

It almost overshadowed the pain. 

 

“I want to touch you,” Christopher rasped, low and husky.  Tom peered blearily up at him, and nodded, then closed his eyes again.  Christopher surged forward and Tom wrapped his legs around him, clenching appreciatively as Christopher’s cock was drawn deeper inside.  He let his arms fall to his sides as broad hands smoothed over his abdomen and Christopher mouthed his right nipple, wide and hot.  He pulled away, and Tom gasped as moisture hit air. 

 

“You are…” Christopher began, rumbling over him.  “Every time I see you, it’s like the first time.”  He kissed Tom’s neck, then drew away again.  Tom opened his eyes a sliver, but kept them downcast.  “The same thought comes in my head, the same then, the same now.” 

 

“You mean,” Tom said, turning his face to the side, a parody of a smile twitching at his lips.  “That I’m a raging faggot?” 

 

“That you’re beautiful.” 

 

Tom’s eyes shot open.  It had been said so simply, so…self-evidently.  As though that were the only thing he could have said.  He turned slowly, watching Christopher warily from the corner of his eye. 

 

Christopher brushed his fingers reverently over the curve of his cheek, and murmured, deep and throaty.

 

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?  Thou art more lovely and more temperate.” 

 

Tom suddenly found it hard to breathe, heart pounding in his chest. 

 

It felt like fear. 

 

“That’s from that, uh, ‘Fair Youth’ sequence, yeah?  That you said?”  He cupped Tom’s cheek. 

 

Tom nodded stiffly.  “Sonnet eighteen,” he rasped.

 

Christopher nodded back, smiling softly.  “That’s a real famous one too, right?  And he wrote it for a bloke.” 

 

Tom felt frozen.  No, not frozen, he was too hot for that.  Burnt.  Encased in something black and hard. 

 

Christopher kissed him, and spoke into his lips. 

 

“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”

 

Tom fought to breathe, gasping laboriously at each inhalation.  Christopher kissed his way across his jaw, hot breath falling with every word. 

 

“Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimmed.” 

 

He reached the spot just under Tom’s ear, and Tom’s head tilted his back, eyes falling closed. 

 

“And every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance or nature’s changing course untrimmed.” 

 

Tom squeezed his legs tighter, and wrapped his left arm across Christopher’s shoulder. 

 

“Fuck me,” he whispered to Christopher, and Christopher complied. 

 

“But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou owest.”

 

Tom’s right hand clutched Christopher’s hair, his head tucked into Tom’s shoulder as he poured his script directly in Tom’s ear.

 

“Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou growest. 

 

“Come in me,” Tom whispered fervently.  “Come in me, I want you to.” 

 

“So long as men can breathe,” Christopher groaned, hips shuddering.  “Or eyes can see,” and he gasped, and Tom felt warmth spill inside him. 

 

Eyes rolled back in Tom’s head as Christopher gave his last thrusts, and then rested on the crook of his shoulder. 

 

“So long lives this,” Christopher murmured into Tom’s neck.  “And this gives life to thee.”

 

He lay there a moment, then pushed up, peering at Tom through hooded eyes. 

 

“You’re still hard,” he said mutedly. 

 

“I’m close,” Tom assured him, and pushed up at his chest, unhooking his legs from Christopher’s waist.  Then he took Christopher’s hand and brought it between them.

 

He moved right past his throbbing erection and after coaxing Christopher’s softening cock from his arse, replaced it with Christopher’s fingers.  Then he took himself in hand, stroking languidly.

 

Christopher smiled boyishly once he understood, and fucked his digits into the cum-soaked passage.  

 

“Filthy, dirty professor,” he commented with idle delight.  Tom’s arse clenched around the thick fingers, cum squirting about them obscenely, and he came, just like that.  Pleasure rippled through him like a wave, shuddering through every muscle.

 

Christopher slipped his fingers from his arse and brought them to Tom’s lips.  Tom licked them clean. 

 

“You really are the best cum-bucket I’ve ever had, “ Christopher remarked with something like wonder. 

 

He got dressed and then, and with a soft kiss to Tom’s lips, he was gone. 

 

Tom rose some time later, muddled and unsteady, and made for the washroom.

 

He turned on the shower and then, waiting for the water to warm, reached for his toothbrush, when he caught a look of himself in the mirror above the sink.  He frowned.

 

Dazedly, his eyes never leaving his reflection’s, he scooped a handful of the cum drying on his stomach and smeared it over the image in the mirror.  He pushed hard into the glass, rubbing and smudging at a face that he could never seem to get to, protected by the invisible wall between them.  Finally, in frustration, he drew his hand back into a fist, ready to smash the glass and the image inside it.

 

He froze, fist pulled back over his shoulder, his own hard face staring at him, blinking.  He shook himself, and dropped his hand.  He’d never even thrown a punch before, what the hell had he been thinking? 

 

He grabbed a washcloth, wiped down the mirror, and stepped into the shower. 

 

He stood there a minute, then lay down in the tub, curled over to one side.  He stayed like that as the water turned cold again and still he didn’t move.  He didn’t even try to wash himself. 

 

What was the point.  

 


	6. In which Tom spirals into darker places and Chris tries out his version of romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sex and self-loathing. So, basically, the same as every other chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, this time with some mild bondage and a side order of psychological distress. 
> 
> There's been a couple comments asking about the possibility of a Chris POV chapter. The short answer is...no, probably not, for a couple of reasons. First, as I said, this story is pretty insistent, and that just doesn't seem like the direction its going in. It seems to be mostly Tom's story, so I'm not sure we'll ever get to other POVs. Second, I'm pretty much writing Chris as a psychopath (or someone with Antisocial Personality Disorder, if we're being technical) and while that could be interesting to write, and I'm sure interesting to read, I'm not really up for it-too twisty (I know, I know, but...seriously. I'm not sure I wanna get into that headspace). However, I do get the interest, so for those of who may want it, here's a couple notes about Chris's mindset in all this, at least from my point of view.
> 
> Chris really is incapable of viewing Tom, or anyone really, complexly. On some level he really doesn't understand that Tom has needs or wants that don't align with his own. He may even genuinely "like" Tom, but he can't empathize. He wants what he wants-that's ultimately all that matters. Also, as someone with APD, he's incredibly manipulative. I'm not going to say that everything he does is deliberate or that he knows exactly what effect he's having, but he's probably more aware than you might think. At the same time, there's a part of him that does "care", and really does think that he's giving Tom what he wants/needs, even putting himself in the role of "good boyfriend". There's also some homophobic and misogynistic world views that aren't helping, you know, at all. So, that's a little overview, I'm happy talk more about it if you have questions or want to discuss it further, but there probably won't ever be any POV from him. If you're really interested and want to delve in more, you might find it fun to read up on Antisocial Personality Disorder, that will probably give you a pretty good idea what's going on.

 

 

Christopher didn’t visit him again over the holiday.  Tom wasn’t under any illusion that meant the ordeal was over, but he was grateful nonetheless.  It gave him the chance to heal.  While their last encounter hadn’t been particularly painful, it still left him sore in the morning.  It was good to have the time to recover from those initial un-lubricated…events.  Even the rest of his backside appeared to be improving.  Four weeks after the caning, it was hardly good as new, but it was…tolerable.

 

He didn’t touch himself all week.  If he got hard, he ignored it or took a cold shower.

 

School resumed, and Tom spent the week hardly noticing Christopher’s existence outside of basic class work.  Christopher treated him much the same. 

 

Thursday night, he lay awake, once again knowing what no doubt awaited him tomorrow.

 

_I thought you had stopped pretending._

He stared vacantly into the darkness, not even bothering to argue with himself. 

 

_You’re not a victim.  You’re a pervert._

 

Tears began pouring quietly from the corners of his eyes. 

 

_Just think about him.  Think about him, and you’ll get hard, you’ll see._

 

He tried not to, but images sprang to his mind unbidden, of a strong golden boy full of cold fire and thunder, and sure enough he felt his cock harden. 

 

_Whore._  

 

He turned over, burying his face in a pillow, and tried to sleep. 

 

 

 

 

 

Tom didn’t have to wait long that Friday afternoon.  Christopher left with the rest of class, but returned barely ten minutes later, locking the door behind him with a coy smile on his face. 

 

“Miss me?”

 

Half of Tom’s face tried to smile back but the other half seemed utterly opposed, so it mostly just twitched as though he had some sort of tick.  He didn’t offer an answer. 

 

Christopher didn’t seem to mind, just sauntered over to him, beaming. 

 

“Stand up.”

 

Tom stood out of his chair only trembling a little.  Christopher moved his chair out of the way and took its place behind him before putting his hands to Tom’s jacket and slipping it off his shoulders.  Tom let him, half turning his head as Christopher carefully folded the garment and laid it on the chair.  He then reached around him from behind, undoing Tom’s belt and then taking it out its loops. 

 

“Put your hands behind your back,” he whispered in Tom’s ear, as though it were a seduction. 

 

Tom kept his eyes fixed on his desk, and obeyed, swallowing thickly as the leather tightened around his wrists. 

 

Next Christopher reached around him again, this time pulling off his tie.  He unfurled it and, holding it taut between two hands, held it lengthwise in front of Tom’s face. 

 

“Open your mouth.” 

 

Tom stared at the strip of cloth dejectedly, but did as he was told.  Soon, his pale blue tie was stretching the corners of his mouth, knotted tightly at the back of his head. 

 

Christopher _hmm_ ed appreciatively, kissing behind his ear and embracing Tom from behind.  He ran hands over Tom’s chest, his own pressed against Tom’s back, and moved down to rest at his hips.  Then he unbuttoned Tom’s trousers, lingering as he pulled down the zipper, and slipped his hand inside. 

 

Tom was instantly hard, although Christopher still only palmed him through his underwear.  Christopher smirked against his neck, and removed his hand, pulling Tom’s pants and trousers down around his ankles. 

 

A crinkle and a rip and then Christopher was sliding a condom onto Tom’s erection, stroking firmly to smooth the latex. 

 

“For the mess,” he murmured, comforting and playful, nipping Tom’s ear. 

 

Tom stood stock still, jaw clenching as his face burned with shame. 

 

Then Christopher was walking around, clearing the desk. He neatly placed each item that might be in the way off to the side, then, very deliberately, standing just to Tom’s left, pulled out a small tube of lubricant and set it near the edge of the desk. 

 

Tom glanced at Christopher.  He looked ridiculously pleased with himself.  Tom fought the urge to roll his eyes.  Or cry. 

 

With that, there was nothing else to do but nudge Tom down over the desk and urge his legs apart.

 

And suddenly, Tom was faced with a horrifying realization: from this side of the desk, he was faced out into the classroom.  Rows of empty desks stood stark along his field of vision, callous and unforgiving.  He shuddered, face crumpling, fighting wet, choking sobs behind his makeshift gag.  He pressed his forehead into the desk, closing his eyes, and tried to steal himself against the shame and despair. 

 

A slick finger entered him, and it seemed Christopher was indeed a quick study, as he used everything Tom had showed him before to leave him a whimpering mess of arousal.  Tom’s hips undulated against his will, his thighs falling open wider as an obvious plea for _more, more._  

 

Christopher spread his arse and slid his cock inside him with a slowness and delicacy that was almost teasing.  He angled his hips one way and then another, grazing his prostate sometimes and sometimes not, with a deliberate softness that made it clear he hit the mark only when he wished to.  Tom panted into his desk, twitching on the edge as Christopher set his nerve endings alight with sensation. 

 

Then Christopher started hitting his prostate on every stroke, and Tom was undone in seconds.  He filled the condom, jerking pathetically around Christopher’s hard cock which held still, terrifyingly still, inside him. 

 

He finished twitching, loose hair plastered to his face as he tried to bury himself deeper into the wooden plank of his desk.  For a moment, everything was still.  His wrists ached.  The tie bit into his stretched lips.  He could feel the used condom clinging to his softening cock against his leg. 

 

Abruptly, Christopher’s grip on his arse changed, but it was really the palpable shift in energy that told Tom to steel himself.

 

Christopher slammed into him and the whole desk shook.  Tom cried out, or at least tried to behind the gag, and Christopher fucked into him again, just as forcefully.  Hips collided with his arse with a might that sent him careening into the edge of the desk.  Over and over, there was no relief.  Christopher used him mercilessly and Tom was helpless to do anything but endure.

 

It was power.  An expression of pure, cataclysmic, power.  Tom could mewl and shake and cry.  He could beg and placate and appease, but he couldn’t fight.  Couldn’t win.  He couldn’t even bargain, because he had nothing to offer that couldn’t be forcibly taken.  He might as well try battling a hurricane.  Or a god.   

 

He was getting hard again, even as he wept, even as he burned with humiliation, his cock, still coated in soiled latex, hardened, and came again.

 

_Whore._

 

He screamed behind his gag, spit dripping onto the desk below, when he was struck with a sudden, wild, desperate desire for pain. 

 

_Hurt me_ , he wished wretchedly, skin prickling.  _Somebody._

 

_Hurt me._    

 

 

 

 


	7. In which Tom has an incredibly unsubtle dream and there is a new prop added to the mix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout, dreams, butt plugs, and double penetration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No particular warnings in this one I don't think, other than the usual. Some destructive/self-destructive thoughts, but nothing too intense (for this story, anyway).
> 
> Also...about all the thunder and lightning and god imagery with Chris, I swear, it's not even a Thor thing, it's just...really appropriate for the character, ok? (sighs in embarrassed frustration)

 

The condom bulged inside him and finally Christopher was spent, dropping over Tom’s back in satisfied exhaustion.  He mouthed the back of Tom’s neck in wet, open kisses, trailing his fingers idly through his curls. 

 

Tom tried not to throw up.

 

Christopher moved off of him groaning, limp cock slipping from Tom’s hole.  He grabbed a clump of tissue paper from the box, placing it on the desk before plopping his used condom in the middle.  Then he slipped an arm between Tom’s legs, pulled the bulging condom off his penis, and put it there too. 

 

Tom was trembling when Christopher stood him up, face hot and no doubt bright red.  Christopher pulled up his pants, then his trousers, carefully tucking his shirt into the back.  He undid the belt around his wrists, and Tom let them fall flaccidly to his sides, fighting the urge rub them with his hands.  Then Christopher turned him around and did up the front of his trousers, lacing the belt through the loops and pulling the buckle closed. 

 

He smiled warmly at him.  

 

Tom was still gagged, so he just stood there. 

 

“I can always count on you,” Christopher said pleasantly, placing firm hands on Tom’s hips.  “To be a slut, can’t I?”  He was gleaming, face flushed with lingering pleasure, aglow and beautiful. 

 

Still gagged, Tom just blinked.

 

“I’ll take care of this,” Christopher said, bundling up the wad of condoms and tissue paper.  “Throw it out somewhere else.  I know you worry about that.” 

 

He put a hand in Tom’s hair and pulled him in for a kiss.  He was enthusiastic, slipping between Tom’s lips and licking at the fabric of the tie, then nipping at the strained borders of his mouth before pulling away. 

 

He put a hand at the back of Tom’s neck, pulling their foreheads to rest together.  He gazed into Tom’s eyes, bright and beaming. 

 

“I knew you missed me.”  He planted a long kiss on Tom’s forehead, shot him one last adoring smile, and left. 

 

Tom watched him go. 

 

When the door closed, he let out a deep breath and bowed his head.  He reached around and started working the knot behind his head, pulling at the gag to see if he could get it down around his neck.  He couldn’t, and it took several minutes to get his slippery fingers to untie it.

 

He pulled the gag from his mouth gasping, and ran quivering fingers over the corners where his lips met.  He checked his fingers and saw he was wasn’t bleeding, but he did feel very tender.  His jaw ached, and kept working itself, trying to get rid of an odd, uncomfortable cracking feeling. 

 

He put his desk back in order, dropped his ruined tie into his briefcase, undid the top button of his shirt, and went home. 

 

 

 

 

 

That night, Tom had feverish dreams of a flaxen-haired god fucking him in the middle of a rainstorm.  Lighting and thunder crashed around them as he was pounded mercilessly.  He was naked, his back squishing into the oozing mud, his body shivering as cold torrents beat down on him.  The god was clad in golden armor, and it cut him with every thrust.  He kept trying to pull the armor off, so it would stop slicing into him, leaving him covered with red, bleeding wounds.  But as he worked, he realized there was no flesh underneath: the god was made of armor, solid through.  He looked down, and saw that even the hardness plunging in and out of him was metallic, caked with blood.

 

He screamed, and just then a bolt of lightning struck the god, surging through the invulnerable metal and into the prone figure underneath. 

 

 

 

Tom gasped awake, sweat drenched and chest heaving in the darkness.  His covers were tangled round his legs and his pillow seemed to have fallen off the side of the bed.  He breathed deep, steadying himself, and looked at the clock. 

 

4:00 A.M.  Might as well get up. 

 

He went about detaching himself from his sheets, when he felt a dampness. 

 

He looked down.  Hand trembling, he reached under his pants.

 

He felt warm stickiness touch his fingers, and something inside him broke.  He wanted to wail, weep, tear his hair.  He wanted to dig his nails into his offending genitals and scream, find whatever part of himself was responsible and rip it out.  He wanted to smash everything he owned, break it all to pieces, and then set the house on fire.   

 

Instead, he put his clothes in the hamper, took a shower, and tried not to crash himself against the tiles.  There were dark bruises running across his hips, some in the shape of fingers.    

 

He went running.     

 

 

 

He was getting ready for bed and he already knew he was in trouble.  His skin was hot and flushed, desire unfurling out from his center with sticky, stinging tendrils.  He took a cold shower, but it didn’t help, and he even knew why.  This wasn’t just arousal, wasn’t some simple physiological response.  This was something deeper.  Something _wrong_ -er. 

 

Stubbornly, he lay down on his bed, trying to ignore the itch beneath his skin, down in his darkest places. 

 

He stared up at the ceiling and felt himself get hard. 

 

_Whore_. 

 

He propelled out of bed, fevered and angry. 

 

_Fine.  You win._  

 

He tore off his clothes and stalked to his chest of drawers.  Tom had never been able to be one of those people who kept his things by the bed, but that didn’t mean he was without.  He yanked open the bottom drawer, snatched a plug, and slammed it shut again. 

 

He grabbed lubricant and fell onto his back, spreading his legs.  He prepped with his fingers, but he wasn’t in the mood to be patient.  Or gentle. 

 

He slicked the plug and jammed it inside him, hissing at the sudden breach. 

 

Then he moaned.

 

He clenched around the intruder, savoring the rigid plastic pushing at his inner walls. 

 

It was five inches, fairly narrow at the tip, but widening near the base.  Its surface was smooth, not just because he enjoyed the feel of that, but because he’d always found the extravagant ridges and textures on such toys rather ridiculous and grotesque.  He quite liked the cool, unpretending artificialness, somehow heightening the delicious vulgarity. 

 

The vulgarity didn’t feel particularly delicious at the moment, but the rest was still true. 

 

He pulled it nearly out and then fucked back in.  He kept a steady pace, in and out, in and out, each time driving the apparatus inside with an extra vicious force. 

 

He wasn’t even fully hard, nor did he care to be.  This wasn’t about release.  It wasn’t even about sex.  It was darker than that.    

 

_Whore._

 

He thrust again.

 

_Whore._

 

Again.

 

_Whore._

When somehow he looked blinking into the room and saw Christopher watching him from the shadows, he wasn’t remotely surprised. 

 

He dropped his hand to the bed as Christopher approached, dark and formidable as an avenging angel, leaving his legs spread lewdly and the plug in his arse flagrantly displayed. 

 

Christopher took hold of the base, twisting it inside him. 

 

“Naughty professor,” Christopher teased, full of terrible promise.   

 

Tom whimpered, suddenly erect. 

 

Christopher pulled the plug out, and fondled the outer area of his entrance with the tip.

 

“You want me to fuck you with this, Professor?” Christopher asked, pressing the tip inside, swirling it around just inside the flexible entrance.

 

Tom nodded tightly.  There was an inky hatred unfurling through him, filling his nose and throat, and it wasn’t for Christopher. 

 

“You want me to be gentle?” 

 

Tom held a moment, then shook his head, stiff and fervid.

 

“Pull your knees up.”

 

Tom brought his knees to his chest, holding them open with his hands.  He stared straight up, unseeing.

 

Christopher pushed the plug down into him, then took hold of the base and started pulling it out and pushing back in at a shocking speed.  The friction was almost searing as he pumped Tom’s arse, pitilessly cruel. 

 

Tom let his eyes fall closed and his mouth fall open, and reveled in every second of it, a low keening pulling from the back of his throat.   

 

Then Christopher drove the plug into his prostate and held it there till Tom came all over himself with a desperate shout. 

 

He left the plug inside as Tom trembled down from his orgasm, fingering leisurely over the base. 

 

“You look good like that,” he commented as Tom fought to catch his breath.  “You should keep it in.”  He rubbed a thumb across the top of his inner thigh.  “Just think, I could take it out of you at school, and you’d be already ready for me.”

 

Tom shook his head back and forth hopelessly.  “No, I have to,” he gulped.  “I have clean it.  And,” here he choked back a sob.  “We can’t…we can’t keep doing this, at…at the school.  We’re…we’ll get caught, I—“ He tried to fight against the tears but soon lost.  “I could lose my job,” he wailed, hands tightening under the knees they still held open.  “I could be banned from teaching.  I think…I think I could be arrested.”  He wasn’t sure about that, Christopher was of age, but there were different rules for adults in positions of authority and oh _God_. 

 

“Shh, shh,” Christopher soothed.  “We gotta turn that brain off.”  He slipped a finger around the base of the plug, sticking it into Tom down to the first knuckle.  “You ever had two cocks at once?” he asked curiously. 

 

Tom bit inside his lip, and shook his head.  “No,” he said hoarsely. 

 

“Never been fucked with one of these in you?”  Tom shook his head mutely.  He’d stopped crying. 

 

Unsurprisingly, Christopher started stretching him around the plug.  He used plenty of lube, and soon he was practically pulling Tom’s inner walls outward. 

 

He pushed the plug up, and inserted his cock underneath. 

 

Tom grunted, but otherwise lay completely stiff against the bed.  It was strange, this violation.  The hot flesh of Christopher’s penis, animalistic and nearly brutal in its thrusts, and the smooth, lifelessness of plug, ever present and placid.  Tom felt like a science experiment, laid out on the dissection table to be played with. 

 

And then suddenly, he relaxed.  His muscles unclenched, his face softened, and he fell into the bed, loose and yielding.  He lay there, looking up at nothing, mind blank and fuzzy.  It wasn’t that he no longer noticed the phalluses penetrating him, nor that he couldn’t feel them.  He simply no longer cared.  His own cock stiffened somewhat, but it was far away.  It would wilt, then come back to hardness, then wilt again, all without Tom or Christopher paying it the slightest attention. 

 

Spunk sloshed inside him, filling up the space around and behind the plug.  Christopher withdrew, leaving the plug inside him.  A moment later, he rearranged it, prodding it back in to its base.  He pushed at the flat of the base with his thumb, and looked down at Tom. 

 

“Leave it in,” he encouraged, and Tom sighed, exasperated.  “It’ll be the last time,” Christopher coaxed, promising.  “The last time at school.”

 

Tom looked at him impassively, heart sinking deep into his chest. 

 

“I’ll clean it in the morning,” he said after a moment. 

 

“And you’ll keep it in till then?” Christopher prompted. 

 

Tom nodded.  “Yes.”  Christopher continued scrutinizing him, expectant look on his face.  “And,” Tom said carefully.  “I’ll wear it Friday.” 

 

Christopher smiled then, and kissed him roughly from between his legs. 

 

“The last time,” Tom tried to say firmly as he pulled away. 

 

“I promise,” Christopher nodded. 

 

Once Christopher was gone, Tom tucked under the bedcovers.  The plug in his arse was odd, but not uncomfortable, the dull ache not much more than could be considered usual for sex. 

 

He lay on his back, then curled onto his side.  He tucked his knees toward his chest, only to push them out straight a moment later.  He turned onto his stomach.  No matter what he did, he felt exposed, uncomfortably open. 

 

He pulled a pillow to his chest and slept fitfully.         

 

 

 

 


	8. In which things begin to settle unsettlingly, with the help of some more spanking.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plugs and spanking and Chris gets ridden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I'm gonna officially add an abusive relationship tag to this, since that's clearly what's going on at this point. Other than that, no real additional warnings. Just the same old non-con mind fuckery.

 

 

Friday morning, Tom had washed himself thoroughly and then spent a good ten minutes stretching his anus around his fingers.  He’d used as much lube as he reasonably could, fairly certain Christopher would offer him no further preparation, then inserted the plug to its base before dressing.  It wasn’t painful, but it was definitely impossible to ignore and Tom had to make a conscious effort to walk normally. 

 

He sat at his desk as the bell rang, trying not to clench restlessly around the hard plastic for perhaps the hundredth time.  The lube seemed to have lasted fairly well through the day, though he was a bit dryer than he preferred.  He’d contemplated going to the restroom to add some more and maybe stretch himself a bit before the end of the school day, but the thought of pulling out a butt-plug and fingering himself in a stall of the faculty washroom with students and teachers still roaming the halls had proved too horrifying. 

 

At least he hadn’t spent the day blushing at every interaction.  It was remarkable, how his shame had settled into this constant presence, so ubiquitous that it rarely alarmed him anymore.  He felt dirty and used and ashamed, but he’d accepted it, and that’s what helped him get through the day. 

 

He looked up as he finished his paper work, gaze wandering over his surroundings. 

 

This was the last time he’d be fucked in this room.  If Christopher kept his word. 

 

One did have to be grateful for small favors. 

 

He put his things away, and waited.  Christopher was taking his time today.  Tom didn’t move from his chair, he just folded his hands on his desk and stared vacantly ahead. 

 

He hadn’t eaten anything all day, and he almost reveled in the lightheadedness that let him float away. 

 

The door opened, and the moment was gone. 

 

Christopher kissed him thoroughly, drawing him out of his chair.  He wound an arm about his waist as the opposite hand ran down over his rear, clasping around the back of his upper thigh.  Tom wrapped his arms around Christopher neck. 

 

Christopher pulled back, regarding Tom with fondness as his hand rubbed at the inside of his thigh. 

 

“Go stand over there,” he ordered smoothly after a moment, gesturing to the open space between Tom’s desk and the first row of desks. 

 

Tom did as he was bid, and Christopher sat down in his chair, swinging his feet up onto the desk.  He eyed Tom with obvious pleasure, and Tom stood facing him, awaiting further instruction. 

 

“Take off your clothes.” 

 

Tom sighed, slow and even, and took off his jacket.  He set it, folded neatly, on a student’s desk behind him, face crumpling only a moment as he did so.  He took off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt next.  He wasn’t trying to make a show of it, but Christopher watched him so intently, with such hunger, that it seemed to infect him.  He found his movements slowing, his hands lingering, as he stripped himself down to nothing. 

 

As he placed his folded underwear on the pile behind him, an unbelievable sadness and regret washed over him. 

 

_I’m sorry_.  He didn’t know who he was talking to. 

 

 Christopher observed his nakedness cheerfully, then took his feet of the desk, leaning forward and waved Tom over. 

 

Tom walked forward.  He didn’t bother to disguise the way the plug in his arse affected his movements.  When he reached the desk, Christopher sat up straight on the other side and regarded him coolly.  

 

“Kiss me.”

 

Tom didn’t pretend to misunderstand.  He leaned across the desk, bracing with his hands.  He could feel it as the plug was exposed to the empty room as he bent forward. 

 

He met Christopher’s lips softly, then quickly deepened it.  Their lips clutched at each other as they took turns catching the other’s bottom lip between their own.  Christopher hand was in his hair, and after a minute or two he pulled Tom away, laying him flat across the desk.  A final pet to his hair, and Christopher stood, meandering around to the desk’s opposite side.

 

He _hmm_ ed approvingly as he spread Tom’s arse and Tom cooperatively opened his legs.  Christopher ran a finger down between the crack, then held the plug by the base and rotated it.  Tom winced slightly, mostly in anticipation, as it didn’t go entirely smoothly.  Warm hands stroked his haunches, thumbs dipping occasionally into the valley between his cheeks.

 

Then, he was being eased up and back.  Christopher sat in front of him on the desk, legs spread casually.  He took Tom’s cock in hand, and stroked. 

 

Tom’s breath hitched as he hardened quickly.  He was honestly quite ready to go; he had had a plug in him all day after all.  When he stood fully erect, Christopher opened a condom and put it on him.  Then he sat down on the desk, hands falling flat behind him. 

 

“Take it out.”  The instruction had a deeper hardness than his previous ones had, and Tom’s heart thumped. 

 

He reached behind and tugged, face heating.  This was somehow worse, and his stomach churned discomfitedly as the plug slipped out from his arse. 

 

He held it awkwardly by the base, until Christopher gestured with his head for him to put it down. 

 

He laid it on the desk, hesitating just a second before letting the damp toy drop unnervingly with a dull thud against the wooden surface. 

 

Christopher was already undoing his jeans and pulling out his waiting erection.  He then took a tube of lubricant from his pocket. 

 

“Ride me,” he commanded leisurely, slicking himself generously. 

 

_No condom for you,_ Tom noted with little interest, and lifted a knee obediently up over the desk. Quickly, Christopher’s hands were under his thighs, hoisting him up.  He placed his hands securely at Christopher’s shoulders, finding his balance astride his lap.  The hard wood of the desk already bit into his bare knees.  Christopher’s hands were at his waist, steadying him. 

 

He lowered, and flinched only slightly at the burn.  He forced himself all the way down, his ears full of Christopher’s contented sighs, then took a firmer hold of Christopher’s peculiarly comforting solidity, and started fucking himself onto his cock. 

 

Tom kept his gaze fixed on Christopher’s chest.  Moans and groaning soon sprung from that reverberating chest, growing louder and deeper as they went on. Tom was mostly quiet, keeping his gasps and cries voiceless.  He pumped up and down, determinedly doing nothing to actively see his own pleasure.  He was hard, and he couldn’t claim the feeling wasn’t enjoyable, even with the soreness of being plugged all day, but it didn’t heighten any more than that and Tom didn’t try to make it. 

 

Then Christopher put his mouth on his right peck, enveloping the nipple and surrounding muscle in slick, wet heat.  Tom’s head threw back and he felt Christopher catch him, keeping him from falling.  Christopher mouth devoured him, sucking and biting greedily and without apology.  He did the same at the crook of his neck, laving broad and damply before sinking his teeth into the skin. 

 

Tom cried out and his arse clenched around Christopher’s cock urgently.  All at once, he _needed_ , needed that cock, needed it inside him.  He quickened his pace, slamming down into Christopher’s lap ruthlessly.  He grunted with every impact, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop. 

 

Without a word, Christopher tightened his right arm around his waist, and lifted his left hand to Tom’s right perched at his shoulder.  He took hold of it gently, pressing their palms together as though they were dance partners, as though they were waltzing and Tom wasn’t brutally fucking himself on Christopher’s erection. 

 

Christopher brought Tom’s hand down and placed its palm against the right cheek of Tom’s arse, enveloping his own hand overtop of it.  There was very little pain there anymore, just maybe a twinge once in a while.  Pale white lines had formed where the cane had struck him.  Tom wondered if they would fade with time, or if he’d be scarred there.   

 

“Spank yourself,” Christopher whispered gruffly, moving his hand smoothly to rest on Tom’s thigh. 

 

Tom actually paused mid-thrust. 

 

“W—wh…” he stammered, looking, startled, into Christopher’s face.  There was no mistake though, and Tom’s face burned as he dropped his gaze again.  Amazing, that after all this, he could still feel ridiculous. 

 

But he sighed softly, lifted his hand and brought it down on the globe of his arse with a _smack_. 

 

Christopher looked at him condescendingly. 

 

“Come on.  Harder.  Like you know you deserve.”  Christopher’s eyes bored into him, hard as diamonds.  Tom was breathing hard through his nose, trying not to feel the affect Christopher’s words had had on him. 

 

_Whore._

 

He raised his arm again and, with just the slightest quiver to his lip, brought it down.

 

Tom’s cry blended with a crack that echoed in the room, and his hand flew to his mouth, fingers shaking. 

 

“Again.”

 

Tom sniffed back tears, stretched his knuckles, and readied another blow. 

 

He didn’t hold back.

 

“ _Ah!”_ he cried, gripping Christopher’s shirt under his left hand. 

 

“Again,” Christopher instructed, but Tom was already bringing his hand down again with a cry that was choked tears.

 

He bowed his head, draped his left arm around Christopher’s shoulder, and set his mouth firmly.  Then he lifted up on his knees, and rammed back down.

 

_SMACK!_

 

He did it again, and again, wrapping his arm around Christopher for support.  He fucked himself and spanked himself, savagely and without mercy.  The right cheek of his arse and his right palm stung viciously, but he didn’t waver, didn’t hesitate.  And with every breach of Christopher’s cock, every strike of his own hand, a voice chanted relentlessly in his head. 

 

_Whore._

_Whore._

_Whore._

 

He was hot, so hot, his cock straining against his stomach.  Soon, his hips were twisting, tilting forward or back or in slow circles every time he was filled, chasing bitter, tantalizing, stabbing pleasure. 

 

And still, he rained down abuse.  Every blow was in almost the same spot and hurt, oh it _hurt_.  His skin radiated heat and he imagined himself growing redder and redder and redder. 

 

“This what you need?” Christopher rumbled gruffly. 

 

Tom kept his head down, and nodded earnestly. 

 

“This what you deserve?”

 

He nodded again, tears prickling. 

 

“Why?” 

 

The question vibrated through him, and he shuddered, breaking. 

 

“Because,” he choked, whining and tearful, hard slaps punctuating the air.  “Because I’m a whore.  I’m a…” his face contorted, every word disgorging like bile up his throat, twisting vilely in his mouth before being spat out.  “ _Filthy_ … _sluttish_ … _cocksucking_ … _faggot_ … _whore_.”  He broke off gasping, eyes wet, and then he let out a keening wail, that faded back to helpless sniveling.

 

“And whose whore are you?” Christopher asked, sounding utterly unperturbed.   

 

Tom looked up at the question, his right arm falling behind him.  He gazed into Christopher’s face, close enough to share breath, pumping shallowly in his lap. 

 

Then he clenched.  He squeezed around the cock inside him, his left hand clutching into the back of Christopher’s hair, and he seized the globe of his arse in a grip that dug fingernails into the vulnerable flesh. 

 

“Yours,” he said steadily.  “I’m your whore.” 

 

And then he came, spasming vehemently as Christopher held him to his chest. 

 

He descended from his orgasm feeling electrified but strangely calm.  He let his head fall to Christopher’s shoulder, folding his arm around him loosely.  He brought his right hand, stiff and stinging, to hold in a soft fist under his chin against Christopher’s shirt.  He sat there in Christopher’s lap, relaxed around the hardness in his arse, eyes open and unblinking.  

 

Christopher wrapped his left arm around him, and let his right hand fall to brush over the mounds of his arse.  While the right cheek was raw and throbbing, the left remained untouched, uneasily reached by his right hand. 

 

“Looks like you need some evening out,” Christopher remarked, kneading the as yet unhurt globe on the left.  “You want me to help with that.”  It wasn’t really a question.

 

Tom nodded weakly against his shoulder.  “Yes, please,” he whispered, barely audible.  Then, a bit stronger.  “Would you like me to keep riding you?” 

 

“Naw, sweetheart,” Christopher said good-naturedly.  “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

 

And then he struck.  Tom flinched, and burrowed himself deeper into Christopher, wrapping both arms around his neck as he held on with all his might under the assault.  Christopher’s broad hand hailed down unyielding punishment, and soon the left cheek felt just as raw and ruined as the right.  His arse clenched with every blow and noticed now that Christopher was moaning in time to the muscles constricting around his cock.  Sometimes his hips would thrust up underneath him, pushing deeper inside.   

 

It wasn’t too long before Christopher came in him, though it was long enough to leave his whole arse devastated. 

 

_I’m crying_ , he realized detachedly as Christopher poured his spunk into him.  But other than silent tears, there was nothing else to betray that he felt anything at all, hanging limply from Christopher’s neck. 

 

“Don’t drip on me,” Christopher rasped as he made his last jerks into Tom.  Tom acquiesced smoothly, clenching his arse tight to trap the discharge as Christopher eased out of him.  Tom held himself on his knees as Christopher took the plug from the desk coated it with fresh lube.  Then he reached between Tom’s thighs and Tom kept his arse rigidly tight as the plug was wrigglingly forced inside, only relaxing his muscles when the base lay flush against his entrance.

 

Christopher palmed the base of the plug, pushing up with his fingers, then lifted Tom at the waist to help him down.  Tom’s bare feet plopped on the floor with a solid _thunk_ , sore arse jiggling around its intruder.  He stood still as Christopher ripped off the condom on his limp penis and dropped it wetly on the desk, before wiping his own cock with tissue paper.  He put himself away, and rose off the desk. 

 

Tears had dried, tight and hot on Tom’s face.  His chest felt hollow and yet far too heavy.  He was both weightless, and bored down by unbearable weight. 

 

Christopher stood tall, flushed and glistening.  He looked magnificent. 

 

Without a thought, Tom took him by the back of the head and kissed him. 

 

Christopher’s hands went immediately to his arse and Tom arched into them, opening his mouth hotly with each stab of pain as they kneaded his sore muscles.  He tugged at Christopher’s hair and sucked ravenously at his lips and tongue. 

 

_I’m you’re whore,_ a part of him whispered, dark and wicked. 

 

Another part of him was screaming.  

 

Their lips broke from each other, but they didn’t go far.  Their noses brushed as the nuzzled together, soft and sensual. 

 

Christopher’s hand reached between his cheeks. 

 

“This better still be in when I come see you,” he threatened seductively, and Tom nodded weakly. 

 

He wrapped his arms round Tom in a tender embrace and kissed his cheek.

 

“Whose whore are you?”

 

“Yours.”

 


	9. In which Chris gets a blowjob and Tom gets a shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris is really not as good a boyfriend as he thinks he is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, extra trigger warnings for abuse on this one guys. Take heed.
> 
> Also, this is a short one, sorry. BUT I actually sped way ahead today (what do you mean days off should be spent doing something OTHER than writing fanfiction?) I still have to edit what I have, but I'm gonna keep on uploading things pretty much as soon as they're ready. There's really no reason to make you guys wait. That means there might be some more chapters up tonight because FUCK SLEEP.
> 
> Also, also, I have little bit of an idea of where things are headed now cause I've, y'know, written it? Basically...yeah, things get bad. Worse. Fuck, what is wrong with me. 
> 
> Also, also, also, there is going to be an addition to our little 'cast', someone who may end up playing quite an important roll (wriggles eyebrows mysteriously). How important, you ask? I'm...not entirely sure yet, I haven't gotten that far, BUT I think they could be a major player. I could just tell you who it is now, since there's a good chance you'll be able to guess anyway, but come on, I gotta have some writer-ly mystery, right? 
> 
> ANyway, back to the present, where life is bad, and...yeah that's pretty much it.

 

 

By the time Tom had dressed, cleaned up, and made his way to his car his rectum was really starting to ache.  As he drove home, he wondered how long he’d have to wait for Christopher to take the plug out.  He thought idly of taking it out for a while and then putting it back in, but fear of being caught stilled those ideas fairly quickly. 

 

He unlocked his door and walked upstairs with his head bowed, trying to breathe through the solid, constant intrusion and its discomfort. 

 

He entered his bedroom to find Christopher standing casually by his closet. 

 

_Oh thank God._

 

 

 

Tom sucked Christopher’s cock as he sat on the edge of the bed as, a hand cradled at the back of Tom’s head.  Tom was naked, on all fours between his legs, knees splayed and back arched so Christopher could ogle his plugged and beaten arse in the mirror hung inside his closet door.  He bobbed back and forth, doing his best to please him with his mouth while keeping in position.  When he came, Tom swallowed, making sure to lick up every drop. 

 

Christopher pulled him off and smeared a thumb over his swollen lips. 

 

“Whose whore are you?” he prompted.

 

“Yours,” Tom answered earnestly. 

 

Christopher gazed down at him, then over to the view in the mirror.  Tom arched some more, pushing his hips back.  Christopher cupped a hand under his jaw and rubbed carelessly across his cheek. 

 

“You want me to take it out?” he asked, glancing back to Tom, who felt a sudden stab a fear and dropped his eyes.  “You can tell me,” Christopher encouraged, lifting Tom’s chin. 

 

Tom swallowed, lips shaking.  “P-please,” he stammered, then fell silent, afraid to say more. 

 

Christopher smiled fondly.  “You have a bath?”  Tom nodded faintly.  “Show me.”

 

 

 

Tom took him across the hall.  Promptly, Christopher jerked the shower curtain open across the bathtub. 

 

“Get in.”  Tom obeyed, stepping over the side of the tub without a word.  A few impatient tugs, and Christopher maneuvered him to his knees and elbows, facing the back.  Tom tucked his head and spread his legs against the sides without being told, trying not to tremble.  His knees were still bruised from the desk, but he ignored that.    

 

“Hey, you’ve one of those gizmos with the settings, I love these,” Christopher commented warmly, pulling and fiddling with the handheld showerhead.  Tom could hear him working the dials as well as the knobs on the wall of the shower. 

 

Minutes later and with no warning, Christopher pulled out the plug and tossed it in the sink.  Tom nearly jumped, a startled cry breaking from his mouth.  Then he felt the cold metal of the showerhead pressed up close to his arse. 

 

Christopher squeezed a button, and Tom jolted forward, nearly hitting his head against the side of the tub.  He’d used the harshest setting, one stream of hard, high-pressured water pulsing out against and inside his stretched hole. 

 

And it was hot, scorchingly hot, nearly scalding him.  In no time at all, Tom was buried in his arms and shrieking, his body flinching and wrenching despite himself.

 

_Don’t fight,_ he whispered to himself.  _Stay still, don’t fight._

Then, Christopher’s fingers were scrubbing inside him, stinging with soap.  Another jab of jetting water, and Tom screamed. 

 

The setting changed, and then streams of water, still blisteringly hot, poured over his back and legs.  Tom rammed his eyes shut and bit his lip, whimpering. 

 

The water shut off. 

 

“Roll over.”

 

Haltingly, Tom turned over to his back, now red and tingling, lying with his head back and knees bent.  Water pelted down again, over his chest and belly and then his face, leaving him choking and gasping for air.  It stopped again, and Tom caught his breath, blinking water from his eyes.  All was quiet.   

 

After a moment, unbidden, he spread his legs, letting his knees rest against the sides of the tub, feet pressing together. 

 

Hot water hosed his genitals and he screamed again, lurching.  His knees jerked toward each other, his hands jumping in an instinctual desire to protect his privates.  Instead, he made himself to use his hands to hold his legs open, wrenching his head back and forth against the bottom of the tub and sobbing. 

 

It stopped after what was probably a few minutes, but what felt like forever.  He quaked as cool air hit his drenched frame, stained bright red nearly head to toe. 

 

Christopher sat on the edge of the tub, and smiled at him.  He reached down a hand and ran it through the dampened curls of his hair. 

 

“I take such good care of my whore,” he said fondly.  “Don’t I?”

 

Tom stared up, eyelids trembling.  “Yes,” he forced.  “Thank you.” 

 

Christopher pulled him up for a kiss and Tom shuddered with every brush against his sensitized skin.  Another brush of lips against forehead, and Christopher left him there, humming softly under his breath. 

 

Tom fell back against the tub, pressing both hands over his mouth, and wept.          


	10. In which there is a lot of undescriptive sex and Tom manages another depressingly small victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I add a summary it may be longer than the chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, fuck me, this one's even shorter than the last one. The next one will be longer guys, I promise. 
> 
> Very slight possible abusive relationship triggers. There's probably gonna be a lot of that from now on.

 

 

Tom rose late the next morning.  The light burn on his skin had faded, except from his arse from the spanking of course.  Even that was not too bad, just a bit tender.  He anus was still somewhat sore, but no more than what under different circumstances could had been considered ‘pleasant’. 

 

He brushed his teeth, but stayed in his pajamas, yawning as he walked downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast. 

 

He froze. 

 

“Morning, Professor,” Christopher greeted, a broad smile beaming on his face. 

 

Christopher was sitting on his couch, watching telly and eating crisps. 

 

Tom forced a smile.  Inside, sharp panic thudded in his chest. 

 

_I don’t want you here._

 

It was absurd really, any idea that he might be safe, anywhere, but he just couldn’t stand this, he couldn’t.  The bedroom, fine, the bath, fine, but not here, not the last vestige of normalcy left to him.  He needed to get him out, get him away from the couch and the kitchen and the light streaming brightly through the windows. 

 

He softened his eyes, smile growing more natural, and went to the couch. 

 

Christopher grinned sunnily as he approached, looking nothing but pleased to see him.  Tom reached out and bent over for a long, languid kiss.  He ran his hand down the side of Christopher’s face.  He pulled back gently after a moment, gazing into Christopher’s face with what he hoped was adoration. 

 

His eyes flickered downward a second as a another bolt of fear shot through him. 

 

He had to be careful. 

 

He looked up again, staring straight into Christopher’s eyes. 

 

“Come upstairs?” he suggested softly, needy and deferent. 

 

Christopher’s smile widened and he brought his hands to Tom’s waist. 

 

“You are an eager slut, aren’t you?” he teased.

 

“Yes,” Tom agreed readily, pulling closer.  “Please.  Take me to bed.”

 

“I could take you right here,” Christopher drawled, pulling at Tom’s hips.

 

“No,” Tom trembled, shaking his head.  He tried to keep the denial light and sultry, rather than desperate.  “I need you in my bed.  I need you,” his voice dropped low, and leaned in till their lips almost brushed.  “Please.”

 

There was a pause, and then Christopher growled.  He rose up, lifting Tom from under his rear to wrap his legs around his waist.  Tom moaned at the very real thrill of Christopher’s strength, and kissed him again. 

 

He carried him upstairs, just like that, and dumped him bouncing on the bed.  Tom let him pull off his pants, and spread his legs. 

 

Christopher fucked him.  Then he fucked him again, this time from behind.  Then Tom rode him, gazing down at his naked chest and panting. 

 

They spent the day in that bed.  Tom would go down to bring Christopher anything he wanted—food, water, anything—saying that he wanted to do it, that he was grateful and he needed to show it. 

 

He sucked him four times.  Christopher sucked him twice.  They twisted about each other, both completely naked, touching and groping everywhere.    

 

It was almost like they were lovers. 

 

Christopher rose late that night, contrite and regretful, saying that he had to go.  Tom said he understood, and kissed him deeply before he went. 

 

He lay alone in the soiled sheets, sweaty and sore.  He drifted to sleep, full of something that would have felt like relief if he could’ve just stopped shaking.       


	11. In which I give Tom's sex toys a backstory through unnecessary flashback and there is a startling contrast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More pegging, more spanking, laughter, tears, spirals into self loathing, and Sir Kenneth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: severe self-loathing, mildly destructive thoughts, and...grossness. Paddling, plugging, verbal abuse, and oral. Gratuitous flashbacks, pegging, mild spankings, and actual genuine non-non-con porn. Yeah, really, I'm as surprised as you are. 
> 
> Also, Kenneth Branagh! Yay!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ...do you ever just look at your life and your choices and...yeah...

 

 

Friday, Tom tried not to fidget nervously as the end of school approached.  He checked his keys at least twice and kept fighting the urge to pack up far too early.  Finally, the bell rang.  He sat hesitantly as students filed out, including Christopher.  He took a breath, gathered his things, and followed.  He walked to his car, got in, and started the engine. 

 

He sighed, sagging.  At least Christopher hadn’t chosen to break his word so soon.  He pulled out of the parking lot, and went home. 

 

Christopher was waiting for him in the bedroom.  Tom didn’t even care.  This was better, he told himself, it was. 

 

They kissed, embracing, the drew away, smiling softly. 

 

“So,” Christopher said, suggestively twirling one of Tom’s curls around his finger.  “Where do you keep that little toy anyway?”  

 

Tom’s blood ran cold. 

 

He pointed stiffly.  “Bottom drawer.” 

 

_Stupid, stupid._ He should have got rid of the things he kept there, everything, how could he have been so _stupid_. 

 

Christopher knelt down and opened the drawer. 

 

His eyes lit. 

 

“Why, Professor,” he intoned, taking two items and twirling them in his hands.  “You naughty thing.” 

 

Tom’s jaw clenched, a dull roaring in his ears. 

 

 

 

 

 

_“I can’t believe you bought that,” Tom shook his head, smiling._

_“What?” Kenneth asked, all mock seriousness.  “You don’t like the color?”_

_Tom laughed, broad and jangling._

_“It’s got to be, what, eight inches?” said Tom incredulously._

_“Eight and a half,” said Kenneth, lowering his voice and shifting his eyes conspiratorially._

_“Jesus Christ,” Tom said, laughing again._

_It was divided into eight or nine thick, rounded segments, each one slightly larger than the next.  The last segment bulged a full three and a half inches wide before narrowing at the base.  It was formed out of a hard gel plastic that did not look particularly flexible.  And it was pink._

_Tom let out another wide laugh, snorting slightly as he lifted a hand to his mouth._

_“Ok,” Tom said after a moment, grinning.  “Ok, let’s, uh, let’s give it a try.”_

_Kenneth joined him on the bed, his own amused smile tickling his lips.  They were both in their underwear, Kenneth in blue boxers and Tom in white briefs.  He held up the toy with a bit of a wry tilt of his head, and Tom kissed him, chortling.  He was already getting hard._

_They kissed for a bit, just enjoying the easy delight of it.  Then after a moment, Tom shifted his eyes back to their newest plaything, and bit his lip, cheeks dimpling._

_“Come on, let’s get started,” and he lay back.  He lifted his hips to shuffle out of his pants, and spread his knees, pulling them up to his chest.  Kenneth tucked a pillow under his hips, and pulled out the lube._

_He was still a bit loose from that morning, but Kenneth took his time anyway, liberally spreading lube all over and stretching inside.  Soon Tom was humming contentedly, clever fingers working him open with practiced ease._

_“Ok, ok, I don’t need to give birth,” he said laughing after a while.  “I think we can move on.”_

_“Cheeky,” Kenneth scolded lightly.  Tom giggled._

_He spread thick mounds of lubricant over the plastic gel, and held it up for Tom to inspect._

_It stood tall and wet and really very, very pink._

_Tom burst in a fit of giggles._

_“Ok, ok,” he gasped, calming himself.  “Go on, do it, do it,” he pleaded, his voice still laced with laughter._

_Kenneth merely raised an eyebrow, a picture of sardonic seriousness.  Tom bit his lips.  With exaggerated deliberateness, Kenneth lowered the toy and placed the tip at Tom’s entrance._

_Tom bit his lip harder and nodded, eyes smiling._

_The first segment glided in smoothly, then the second.  Kenneth pressed in steadily, never jerking or wavering, and inch-by-inch it sunk into him._

_About halfway, Tom choked slightly at the back of his throat._

_“Holy **shite** , that’s **huge** ,” he gasped, laughing breathily.  Kenneth chuckled.  “Just…shite.  Fuck.  Fucking **shite**.”       _

_“I love it when you talk dirty,” Kenneth said dryly, and Tom laughed again, wheezing._

_“Uungh,” he groaned as the plug pushed in further.  “Oh, **GOD**.”  His cock lay hard and flat against his stomach, a much more muted pink than the plug sticking out of his arse.  He sniggered again, then snorted.  “Christ, I’m being fucked by a Teletubby.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kenneth chided.  “There weren’t any pink Teletubbies.”_

_Tom laughed heartily._

_Another segment went in and Tom fell quiet, eyes closing.  A faint ‘o’ formed on his lips._

_“Alright?” Kenneth asked, pausing.  Tom nodded._

_“‘M fine.  Just…need to concentrate.”  Kenneth chuckled, and Tom smiled at the sound, eyes still closed._

_He face was flushed as he savored everything, each new stretch, every push deeper.  He swallowed and panted breathlessly.  Sometimes, he’d run his tongue over his lips or bite, sucking at his bottom lip, feeling profoundly, acutely sensual._

_“This is the last bit,” Kenneth warned him, and Tom nodded his understanding.  Then—_

_“A-ah-uhn,” he gasped.  “Jesus Christ.”  His eyes opened and he clenched around the full intrusion almost curiously._

_“What’s it like?” Kenneth asked softly.  Tom thought about it, then shook his head mutedly._

_“I dunno,” Tom said faintly and with some kind of wonder._

_“Ah, there’s my prized pupil, famous for his mastery of the English language,” Kenneth teased._

_“Shut up,” Tom enunciated, chortling._

_“Do you want to…?”  Kenneth inquired, taking a light hold of the plug’s base._

_“Yeah,” Tom breathed.  “Yeah, I…yeah.”_

_Kenneth pulled the plug out, nearly to the tip, then pressed it back in to the base._

_Tom’s head fell back onto the pillow at his neck, hissing._

_“Ok,” he said, after a stunned moment.  “That, is incredible.”_

_“Again?” asked Kenneth._

_“Hell yes.”_

_Another pull and push and Tom couldn’t help but squirm, moaning at the back of his throat._

_“Again,” he gulped.  “And…you can go a little faster.”_

_“Faster?” asked Kenneth, just making sure._

_“Just a little,” Tom panted._

_He cried out as Kenneth picked up the pace, fucking him with a smooth, even rhythm._

_“FUCK.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Yes.  Yes, fuck, fucking… **FUCK!** ”  He squirmed some more, hot and sweating.  “I’m gonna come soon,” he breathed urgently.  _

_“You want to come with it in you?” Kenneth asked.  Tom groaned._

_“Fuck.  I.”  He thought of his muscles constricting around something that size and consistency, and moaned—from pleasure, but also apprehension.  He let out a small, nervous laugh.  “Shite.  I…” Kenneth ceased his movement, patiently waiting for Tom’s answer.  For a few moments, Tom just breathed, blinking, trying to think.  “I,” he paused.  “…Yeah.  Yeah, fuck, do it.  Make me come, fuck.”_

_He gripped his hands under his knees, and braced himself._

_It didn’t take long, and Tom came loud and bucking, half-wild in his ecstasy.  He came with it all the way inside him, plunged to its deepest point, and he clenched around it, feeling its hardness even more as his muscles seized._

_He fell back into the bed with an exhausted sigh, blinking blearily up at Kenneth who watched him with an warm and pleased expression.  Carefully, he extracted the plug, wrapping it in a towel before placing it on the bed._

_Tom took deep, collecting breaths, still tingling slightly from his orgasm.  He smiled softly._

_“So,” said Tom, glancing at the tent in Kenneth’s shorts.  “Do I get to have that too, or is it just there to taunt me?”_

_“Heh.  I think I’d be something of a disappointed after that,” Kenneth remarked, not entirely joking._

_“No,” Tom’ brow furrowed, suddenly earnest.  “No, I want you.”  He reached out a hand, palm down._

_Kenneth looked at him a moment, then sighed._

_“You are far too flattering to an old man’s ego,” he said, pulling a condom from the bedside table._

_“Don’t be stupid,” Tom lilted, softening his words with a small smile._

_“Oh yes, my little genius,” Kenneth mocked, moving between his legs.  “He could be a star of academia, or write the next great novel, but no, he wants to **teach**.”_

_“I **do**_ _want to teach,” Tom protested, laughing exasperatedly at the old argument._

_“Nobody **wants** to teach,” Kenneth derided.  _

_“ **I** do,” Tom argued, almost offended.  “Now stop acting like a crotchety, **boring** , old man, and fuck me already.”  _

_“Well, if you insist,” and Kenneth gave a slight bow with his head and Tom smiled._

_He wrapped his feet behind Kenneth’s neck, and Kenneth leaned into him._

_“Oh.” Tom breathed quietly as Kenneth entered him, eyes wide.  He shivered._

_“Tom?” Kenneth questioned._

_“Move,” Tom said urgently.  Kenneth began working inside him, and Tom’s eyes fluttered closed gasping._

_“You alright,” Kenneth asked, half amused._

_“It’s…” Tom started, cheeks burning.  “It’s sort of… **sinful** , isn’t it?”  He looked up, embarrassed.  “How…how easy it—” he gulped, closing his eyes as Kenneth slid into him again, his body open slick and unresisting.      _

_Kenneth laughed softly, low and throaty.  “‘Sinful’.  And, you like that?”_

_“I—“ Tom broke off, blushing.  Then he laughed.  “Maybe,” he jeered lightly.  “Maybe I do.”_

_“Why Thomas, I’m shocked,” Kenneth rebuked playfully.  “And here I thought you were such a good boy.”_

_“Oh, no,” Tom said, equally facetious.  “I’m…I’m very bad.”_

_“Really, now?” asked Kenneth, prodding._

_“Really,” Tom nodded soberly.  “I’ve…you’ve **no** idea.”  Then he smiled, sniggering. _

_“Well, in that case,” Kenneth went on.  “I’d say, that you’re probably in need of a good paddling.”_

_“OH!” Tom exclaimed, shocked and laughing.  “Well, I—” he broke off, giggling, then, schooling his features, he cleared his throat and spoke seriously.  “Yes, yes you’re right.”_

_Kenneth lifted an eyebrow.  “Yes?”_

_“Yes,” Tom nodded, stern expression breaking with a snort into another broad smile._

_“Well...” Kenneth gave a little chortle.  “I’m afraid I haven’t a paddle ‘handy’, but…” he trailed off, moving his palm to the curve of Tom’s arse._

_Tom smiled wider, and then puffed out a laugh, disbelieving.  Kenneth watched him carefully.  Then, with a deliberate swing, he gave his rump a sharp smack._

_“Oh, ProFESSOR,” Tom squealed exaggeratedly, hips rocking sensuously._

_“You see?” Kenneth said sternly, rubbing over the spot he’d just struck.  “Now, are you going to be a good boy?”_

_“ **Never** ,” Tom proclaimed, proud and grinning.  Kenneth smirked back, and raised his hand.    _

_SMACK!_

Tom hissed as the blow rocked him, sharp pain exploding over his rear end.  Barely a breath, and the paddle fell again, slamming into him with unconstrained force.  The plug inside him jiggled, wide and deep and unyielding. 

 

He winced as he was struck again, whimpering into the pillow in his arms.  He was biting into it, nearly choking as he tried to muffle himself through the thrashing.  He’d actually been hard at the beginning, but that had long faded. 

 

His arse clenched between hits.  He should have thrown out that damn plug.  He hardly ever used it.  He mostly just hung on to it because seeing it lying there in his drawer, with all its flagrant absurdity, would make him smile, and remember—

 

_SMACK!_

 

His eyes squeezed.  He thought he might be screaming, he could hardly even tell he’d jammed the corner of the pillow so far down his throat. 

 

To think that he’d actually done this before, he though incredulously.  He’d perched naked on all fours on a bed with a plug in his arse, waiting eagerly for _this very paddle_ to—

 

_SMACK!_

 

He screamed again, soundlessly.  His nose was starting run, making it more difficult to breathe around the pillow in his mouth.  He didn’t pull it out though.  It was somehow comforting, through all this. 

 

He hurt, inside his arse and out.  Christopher had used plenty of lube, but he hadn’t been stretched quite enough, and the plug had burned as it went in, forcing him too wide, too fast.  God, he hoped he wouldn’t fuck him with this thing in; he might not be able to walk after.  Or ever.  He’d been paddling him for God knew how long.  There was no count, no order.  He just wailed on him.

 

Tom almost didn’t notice when the paddle was dropped carelessly on the bed, the blows having blended through into a constant searing pain. 

 

“Fuck, Professor, you look good.”  He was breathing hard.  “Like, really, fucking gorgeous.  You’re so fucking hot, Professor, you know that?” 

 

Tom sniffed into the pillow.  He was getting hard again.  Damn him, damn him, damn h—

 

There was a tug on the plug, making him grunt (or was that whine?).  Christopher pulled it halfway out, and then pushed it back in, twisting. 

 

“Hot fucking cock-slut, that’s what you are.  You’re arse was just made to be fucked, wasn’t it?”  Another vicious thrust.  “Wasn’t it?” 

 

Tom pulled unsteadily from the pillow, jaw slack and aching.  “Yes.”

 

“Yes?” Christopher pushed, not satisfied. 

 

“Yes, my arse was made to be fucked,” he rasped.

 

“And what are you?” Christopher demanded. 

 

“A fucking cock-slut.”  His throat felt raw. 

 

“Yeah, you are,” Christopher said affectionately, plunging the plug down into him at a new angle. 

 

Now is prostate was assaulted, hard and punishing, and Tom bowed his head in shame and wept.  A few short tugs on his cock from Christopher’s hand thrust between his legs, and he came, spattering obscenely all over the bedcovers. 

 

He gasped shallowly, knees shaking, as Christopher extracted the plug, the length of it as it slithered out of him leaving him vaguely ill.  He eyes stared vacantly down under him, and then he blinked, his pooling cum coming starkly into focus. 

 

His lip quivered, fists clenching. 

 

He lowered, scraping his belly along the bed in a rippling motion that left him streaked with cum. 

 

Christopher laughed. 

 

“Professor, you are _filthy_.” 

 

Tom nodded savagely, grinding himself into cooling sludge.  _Roll in it, roll in it you filthy slut._

Christopher climbed onto his back, straddling him, letting his weight crush him further into the bed.  Tom whimpered.

 

“You like that, you like being a filthy slut?”  Tom nodded, ribs struggling to expand against the pressure.  “Answer me,” Christopher growled, and sat up on his knees.  Tom inhaled sharply as air flooded his lungs. 

 

“Yes,” he gasped as soon as he was able.  “Yes, I’m filthy, I’m filthy and dirty and vile, I’m a whore and a slut and I deserve to be filthy and stained and soiled, I should be covered mud and spat on and…and filled with cum, packed full of it, like the… _foul_ , worthless, piece of _shite_ cum-bag that I am!”  He broke off wheezing sloppily, dripping with tears and snot and saliva.   Christopher was rubbing lightly at the back of his neck, almost soothing.    

 

Then, he was being pulled back by the hair, something hard pressed at his lips.  The plug, the plug from his arse was being pushed against his mouth.    

 

His lips parted. 

 

Christopher was ruthless, forcing the plug all the way down Tom’s throat.  It was harder than a cock, and it’s uneven shape felt strange and unnatural.  Tom felt he might choke.  He felt he might suffocate. 

 

He closed his eyes, and took it.    

 

“Come here,” Christopher nudged, turning him around, hand still tight in his hair.  “Look.”

 

Tom was faced with his reflection.  Christopher had opened the closet.  He could see himself, held up on his knees, his front stained, face blotchy, the base of the plug blocking his mouth like a pacifier as he struggled to breathe through his nose. 

 

Christopher bent him forward, and took him from behind. 

 

Tom barely even twitched, his eyes fixed on his own as Christopher fucked him.

 

_Go to Hell_ , he thought viciously.  _Go to Hell, you worthless, depraved piece of nothing._

Christopher gushed inside him, and Tom wished he’d never stop. 

       


	12. In which there is fisting and the Christmas season approaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginnings of holiday stress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slut shaming and abusive relationship warnings, you know the the drill. Also, Tom talks to his sister for like, five minutes. 
> 
> A note about Tom's family, cause that's gonna come up in a bit: everything I know is from Tom's Wikipedia page, plus this is an AU. What I'm saying is, I extrapolate wildly and make a lot of shit up to make it work for what I'm doing. So, sorry about that, I guess, I dunno.

 

 

Christopher kept his word.  He made no more attempt to touch Tom at school, and from Monday morning to Friday afternoon Tom could almost pretend that everything was normal. 

 

Weekends were an entirely different story.  Christopher would come to him, sometimes more, sometimes less, but never failing to visit him at least once.  Sometimes he was gentle.  More often, he wasn’t. 

 

It was strange.  Tom still lived in fear of pain, white scars across his backside itching psychosomatically and sending shivers of panic through him, yet at times he could also crave it.  Fear, and yet desire. 

 

It was much the same with greater, more dangerous, thoughts of self-destruction, Tom mused as he imagined jerking the steering wheel and careening off the road.  _I don’t want to die_ , he reminded himself firmly.  And he didn’t.  Really, he didn’t. 

 

He almost never left the house, except for work, barely bothering to even dress otherwise.  He didn’t wear pajamas anymore, sleeping naked, usually sore and aching, between his sheets. 

 

He’d mostly stopped crying. 

 

 

 

A slick finger prodded his entrance, and Tom sank down on it.  Christopher observed him lazily from the bed, reclined, a pillow tucked under his neck, in all his naked splendor.  Tom straddled him, also bare, and fucked himself onto Christopher’s hand tucked possessively between his legs. 

 

A second finger, and then a third.  Christopher added lube regularly with the other hand, spreading it gloppily over the fingers stretching Tom’s anus as Tom bobbed up and down.

 

A fourth finger, and Tom had to slow, easing down over the extra intrusion with a grunt.  Christopher rotated his hand as Tom continued his movements, albeit with a bit more effort.  A thumb poked inside, and Tom sank down it as well, taking all five digits down to the last knuckle. 

 

He paused, chest heaving.  He didn’t have to guess where this was going. 

 

Christopher covered the rest of his hand with lube, then rested the other at Tom’s hip. 

 

Tom steeled himself, and pressed down.  He grimaced as he descended, the stretch more disquieting than painful.  Then, with a plop, Christopher’s hand was enveloped. 

 

Tom was panting.  Christopher slicked his forearm, and formed his buried hand into a fist.  Tom bit back a whimper. 

 

Tom forced himself downward, crying out as the bulge of Christopher’s hand was thrust deeper inside him.  His thick arm stretched the outer ring of Tom’s opening relentlessly, growing wider and wider as Tom drove down. 

 

He halted, inches from where the elbow bent under him.  Tom begged a glance to Christopher: _was that enough?_   Christopher regarded him evenly, then gave a curt nod.  Tom sighed with relief. 

 

Then he pulled back up to the wrist, and shoved back down.  He fucked himself, shouting with nearly every thrust.  Christopher’s hands were a fixed presence, one fisted inside him, the other pressed flat against his back, steadying him.  Tom took hold of the solid arm around his waist with one hand, and jacked himself with the other.

 

“You like that?  My fist feel good in your arse?”

 

“Yes,” Tom agreed, blank and breathless. 

 

“Piece of trash whore.  What a greedy faggot cunt you’ve got, huh?”

 

Tom blinked tears from his eyes and didn’t respond. 

 

The hand at his back moved to his arse, and squeezed hard.  “Greedy whore cunt.”

 

Tom nodded mutely.  “Yes,” he mumbled, barely audible.  “I’ve…” he blinked again, furtively, swallowing.  “…Greedy whore cunt.  Greedy, faggot whore cunt.” 

 

He came, spilling on Christopher’s arm, clenching painfully around the thick intrusion in his arse.  He lifted, and Christopher twisted his balled fist from Tom’s anus. Tom’s only reaction was a harsh twitch in his right eye.  Christopher stood erect behind him, and Tom sat down smoothly, letting it breach his stretched hole without a sound.  Christopher lifted his arm, and Tom pulled it to him, sinking his mouth into the crook of his elbow and laving gluttonously at his own cum.  He stayed flush against Christopher’s hips, rolling and swirling around the cock buried inside of him. 

 

“My fist as good as my cock, whore?” Christopher denigrated. 

 

“Nothing’s as good as your cock,” Tom answered promptly, speaking into the flesh of Christopher’s arm, but clear enough to be heard. 

 

“That’s right,” Christopher said, considering.  He removed his cleaned elbow from Tom’s mouth and replaced it with his thumb.  “Fucking cock-slut.  Cock-sucking, cock-fucking slut.”  He hooked his thumb inside Tom’s cheek and pulled him down to lay against his chest.  His other hand still gripped the globe of his arse. 

 

Tom clenched, moaning at Christopher’s cock laying inside him.  He leaned his head in Christopher’s shoulder and closed his eyes, still sucking Christopher’s thumb.  He swirled his tongue around the digit, and let Christopher mildly fuck into his mouth.  His face burned hot.  He reached behind and rubbed between his cheeks where Christopher’s stiff cock hung out of his expanded hole, running fingers over the phallus and dragging dully along his own loose skin. 

 

“Filthy professor,” Christopher hummed approvingly, pulling his thumb out to tug at Tom’s lower lip.  “Filthy, nasty professor.  You like my cock in your dirty cunt?  Your dirty, whoring cunt?” 

 

“Yes,” sucking his lips just over the tip of the thumb. 

 

“You need my cock in your filthy cunt-hole, whore?  Your greedy faggot hole needs fucking?”

 

“Yes,” Tom repeated. 

 

“Need me to fuck that slutty faggot cunt,” he said with vicious certainty.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Say it.”  Christopher glowered dangerously. 

 

“I need your cock, need it to fuck my filthy, whoring cunt.  Fuck my slut whore, faggot hole.  Please.”

 

Christopher smiled, showing his teeth, and rolled them over.  Tom wound his legs around his waist.  He fucked him hard and without mercy, hair tossing like a lion’s mane as he growled down at Tom’s listless form. 

 

“My filthy whore,” he rumbled. 

 

“Yours,” Tom agreed. 

 

 

 

 

 

A week passed, then another, and it was December. 

 

“But why can’t you come home for just a couple of days?  I thought half the point of teaching was that you got holidays off.”

 

Tom sighed.  “It’s not that simple.  I have to get ready for the next semester, work out lesson plans.  It’s my first year, so there’s a lot to set up.  And I’m still learning how to do it all, so it takes longer.”

 

“But just a couple of days,” Sarah pressed.  “Surely you’re not going to spend Christmas day working.  Come for Christmas Eve and Christmas.  Two days Tom.”

 

“It—“ his throat closed.  “It’s really too long a trip for just two days.”

 

“I coming from India, Tom, you can drive to Oxford,” Sarah rebuked, irritated.  Tom fell silent.  “Just come, Tom,” Sarah said, voice softening.  “Emma really misses you.”

 

Tom bit his lip.  “I’ll…I’ll try,” he whispered, choking back tears. 

 

There was a long pause.  “Ok.”  Sarah took a breath and sighed loudly on the other line.  “I better go.  See you soon?” she asked, hopeful. 

 

Tom was quiet.  “Bye, Sarah, he said softly. “Love you.”

 

“Love you, too.” 

 

He hung up. 

 

 

 

“Just two days,” Tom promised, ducking his head demurely as he trailed a finger down Christopher’s t-shirt.  They lay in bed, Tom naked, Christopher in his shirt and underwear. 

 

Tom glanced up.  Christopher’s eyes were hard.  Tom swallowed.

 

“Christmas Eve, then Christmas.  I’ll be back the day after,” Tom insisted, reassuring.  “Won’t you…won’t you be with your own family anyway?  You’ll hardly miss me.”  He gave a shaky smile. 

 

Christopher regarded him coolly, and took his jaw in a hard grip.  Tom’s bones grated, mouth twisting.  He studied Tom’s eyes, assessing.  Then he nodded, just a tiny tilt of his head.  “The day after,” he repeated firmly.  Tom nodded, as earnestly as he could in Christopher’s grasp. 

 

He let him go, and Tom bowed his head, gasping.  “Thank you,” he said, portraying sincerity and reverence.  He kissed Christopher’s lips.  “Thank you.” 

 

He kissed him again, then trailed kisses down his chest, pushing up his shirt to lave lovingly at his lower belly.  Christopher sighed contentedly, and Tom moved downward, pulling at Christopher’s underwear just enough to free his cock.  He licked, long stripes along the shaft, showing his appreciation.  He worshipped Christopher’s cock with lustful adoration.  He sometimes took him all the way down, throat humming gratefully, sometimes pulled off, swirling the tip of his tongue about the head.  When he came in his throat, Tom sucked eagerly for every last drop.

 

 

 

 

 

“I got your present today,” Christopher said, eyes alight and somewhat hungry.

 

Tom gulped, hard.  “You…you didn’t have to,” he said weakly.  Christopher just grinned. 

 

“Have you gotten mine yet?” he asked, sounding rather like he hoped he hadn’t. 

 

“I…” Tom stammered.  “…Did you…want something?” He questioned softly, leaving the end open.

 

Christopher’s grin widened, and Tom’s heart sank. 

 

He showed him on the computer, smiling sunnily over Tom’s shoulder. 

 

“Buy it for me,” he instructed seductively, kissing into Tom’s neck.  Tom nodded mutely, and made the order.

 

 

 

That night, he dreamed he was running, chased down by a herd of stampeding horses.  He tried to outdistance the thundering behind him, but they were too fast and he was soon trampled underfoot by roaring hooves.                               

 

 


	13. In which Tom goes home for the holiday, and then comes back.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holiday cheer and...not...cheer. The opposite of cheer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, a whole chapter with no sex or violence? It must be Christmas! Don't worry, I make up for it BIG TIME in the next chapter. There are still some pretty skeevy abusive relationship triggers to maybe be wary of though. Also, a little crossdressing. 
> 
> The next chapter is pretty long, so it might take me bit to edit. I almost feel like I should wait with these chapters, so that I can post them when its actually Christmas, but fuck it, let us speed ahead. By the time its actually Christmas, we'll probaby be in march, rate I'm going right now.

 

 

“Hey, Tom!”

 

Tom looked up, and saw Tilda jogging over to him.  He dropped his hand from the handle on his car door, and waved awkwardly. 

 

“So,” Tilda began, arriving slightly breathless in the cold.  “Are you going away for the holiday, or…?”

 

“Um,” Tom stammered, caught off guard.  “Just for a couple of days.  See my mum, and my sisters.”

 

“So, you’ll be around,” Tilda said, nodding encouragingly. 

 

Tom’s heart thudded. 

 

“I…yeah, but I really have a lot of work to get ready.  That’s why I’m coming back so soon,” he said quietly. 

 

Tilda’s expression sobered (well, grew _more_ sober). 

 

“Look,” she said carefully after a moment.  “I just wanted to make sure you knew, the headmaster throws this big New Year’s Eve party every year.  It’s also his birthday, so he likes to make it a bit of thing, get everyone to loosen up, have a good time.  It’s not formal, but it tends be a pretty good show.  Food, dancing.  You should come.” 

 

Tom hesitated, mouth working.  “I…” he started.

 

“Tom,” Tilda cut him off.  “First years can be tough.  I know you work hard, and you’re doing well, but…my God, Tom I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.  You don’t eat with the faculty anymore, you just stay at your desk working.”  He looked at him plaintively. 

 

“I…I just want to do the best I can,” he said, fighting past the lump in his throat.

 

“You’re doing fantastic,” Tilda retorted.  “But you can’t keep this up.  You’ve got to loosen up, have some fun.  I swear, I haven’t seen you smile in a month.”  Tom’s lip quirked, and he gave her a look.  She sighed, not missing the irony.  “Come to the party.  Eat.  Dance.  Maybe get drunk.  It’ll do you good, I promise.” 

 

He swallowed, and attempted a smile.  “I’ll…I’ll think about it.”

 

She watched him sharply a moment.  “Ok.” She sighed, a little despondent.  “Happy Christmas, Tom.”

 

“Happy Christmas,” Tom repeated numbly, and watched her walk away. 

 

 

 

 

 

Christopher actually left him rather unmolested leading up to Christmas, busy with his own family’s preparation for the holiday.  Tom woke frightfully early the morning of Christmas Eve, making good time on roads that were mostly clear, only stopping once to fill up the tank. 

 

And then he was home. 

 

“Tom,” said his mother, embracing him.  “It’s good to see you.”

 

“Hi, Mum,” and he smiled. 

 

 

 

Christmas was quiet, cheery, and uneventful.  He and his sisters had a tradition, going back to early childhood, that they’d only ever give each other small, cheap, and often homemade gifts for Christmases and birthdays.  Tom had brought his sisters matching earrings made of bottle caps that he’d found in a junk shop.  They loved them, squealing happily as they compared their two sets, and ultimately trading.  Emma had made sketches of the view out her window at Cambridge, and Sarah brought spices that she swore up and down cost next to nothing.  They ate dinner and laughed and sang Christmas carols, badly, holding cupfuls of cheap eggnog.  They went to bed late, kissing goodnight, and Tom hugged each of them tightly in case he didn’t see them before he had to leave the next morning.      

 

 

 

Tom was zipping his overnight bag, nearly before dawn, when he noticed Sarah leaning in his doorway.  He straightened.  She was studying him, unhappily, arms folded across her chest. 

 

“I really can’t stay,” he said when she stayed quiet, keeping his voice down in deference to those who were still asleep. 

 

She didn’t respond, just regarding him with that same look on her face. 

 

Finally, she spoke. 

 

“Tom,” she started, stern and quiet.  “All you ever wanted to be was a teacher.  You’ve been on that path a long time.  And I know, sometimes…sometimes our expectations can get in the way, and we need to learn to appreciate the thing as it is, and not for what we’d hoped it’d be.

 

“Sarah,” Tom tried to cut in.

 

“But,” she went on undeterred.  “You have to know, Tom, if things aren’t working out, if you’re unhappy,” she paused, earnest look in her eyes.  “You have to know you don’t have to keep going.  You can do something else Tom.  No one’s going to judge you if you’ve changed your mind.” 

 

Tom blinked, a lump forming in his throat

 

“It’s not like that,” Tom said hoarsely.  “I just…I love teaching, I really do.”  He laughed softly.  It was true.  Sometimes it was the only thing that kept him going.  “I just…I told you, it’s a lot of work.  I’m adjusting, that’s all.  Really.”  He looked in her eyes, trying to make her believe.  “I’m fine, Sarah.  Just a little tired.”   

 

She looked at him, and, after a long moment, sighed, and dropping her arms.  She walked toward him, putting her hands at his shoulders.  “I’m sorry.  I just…I worry,” she said, looking up at him.  Then she hugged him, pulling him down, and he wrapped his arms around her back.  “You’re my little brother, it’s my job to look out for you.”

 

Tom laughed, tears springing to his eyes.  “Bit tough, that, from halfway cross the world.”

 

“You’ve no idea,” Sarah complained into his shoulder.  “It’s infuriating.”  Then she pulled back, looking him in the eye.  “Emma wants go in to teaching, you know.  Did she tell you?”

 

Tom shook his head lightly, a smile spreading across his face.  “No, really?” 

 

“Yeah,” Sarah nodded.  “Art or math, she hasn’t decided. 

 

Tom laughed out loud, and wiped his eyes.  “I should probably go.  I want to beat the traffic.” 

 

Sarah looked sad for a second, but smiled.  “Ok.  Drive safe.”

 

“I love you,” Tom said seriously after a moment. 

 

“I love you, too.” 

 

 

 

 

 

Tom drove back and as he got closer and closer to his destination, he felt worse and worse.  He could feel all the comfort and security he left behind drain away, leaving behind a barren, empty coldness that was so much worse now than when he’d managed to forget what it felt like to feel anything else.  He felt scrubbed raw and hollowed out, a sharp pressure building in his chest. 

 

He pulled over several times to side of the road, just so he could cry uncontrollably over the steering wheel. 

 

As it was, he pulled in front of the house in mid-afternoon, when the sun was just starting to set.  He felt drained and exhausted, but he had stopped shaking. 

 

He walked in the front door, and dropped his bag.

 

“You’re back!” Christopher sprung up from the couch, beaming.  Tom stared blankly. 

 

Christopher crossed the room and kissed him deeply, pulling him into a tight embrace. 

 

“Come on,” he whispered, pulling Tom by the hand.  He took him to the dining table, turning back to look at Tom proudly. 

 

The table was set with bright dishes over a crisp tablecloth.  There were cold meats and cheeses, fruits and desserts.  Some kind of sparkling wine with matching glasses.  There were candles, glowing softly. 

 

Tom sat hollowly. 

 

They ate, Christopher happy to take the lead in conversation.  Tom didn’t eat much, but Christopher didn’t seem notice.  Every once in a while he’d bring a slice of fruit or cheese to Tom lips, pressing it between his teeth with a smooth brush of his thumb.  He wrapped an arm around Tom and stroked his hand and nibbled his ear.   

 

Then it was time to go upstairs.

 

Christopher picked up an artfully wrapped box from the bed and handed it to Tom, smiling. 

 

“Did you get mine?” he asked eagerly. 

 

Tom nodded, and went to his closet, pulling out the long, narrow box.  He hadn’t bothered to wrap it. 

 

Christopher didn’t care; he just grabbed the box and pulled open.  He looked up, smiling. 

 

“It’s perfect.”  Tom smiled crookedly.  “Well, open yours,” Christopher urged. 

 

Tom pulled at the ribbon and then the paper.  He opened the box. 

 

He wanted to cry, but he didn’t have any tears left. 

 

Christopher put his hands on Tom’s hips. 

 

“Put them on,” he murmured.  “I’ll wait here.”

 

Tom walked stiffly to the washroom, cardboard box clutched in his hands. 

 

When he returned, Christopher looked up sharply from the bed.  He blinked, lips parting in a silent ‘o’ before crooking up at the corners into a smile. 

 

“You look like Christmas,” he said, deep and heartfelt. 

 

Tom stood in lace panties and a sheer teddy that reached just below his hips, both bright red, and returned a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

 

Christopher stood, holding his brand new riding crop lovingly, and gestured to the bed. 

 

“Get on your hands and knees.” 

 

 

 


	14. In which Chris has his own way of celebrating the holiday and Tom finds himself dragged back down the rabbit hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing says Christmas like lacy red panties and a riding crop

 

 

The tongue of the crop ran languidly over Tom’s haunches, trailing down one leg, then up again, and teasing at the edge of the lace panties along his arse.  It flicked up the edge of the teddy, pushing it further up Tom back, then ran over the newly exposed backside, slowing with extra attentiveness down the center over the fabric clinging between Tom’s cheeks.  He slid the teddy up farther, then farther still, till it draped over Tom’s head, leaving him totally exposed, then hooked under the panties waistband and pulling them down his thighs. 

 

 _Why have me put them on if you just want me naked anyway_ , Tom thought, stupidly and hilariously angry.  

 

Fingers probed at his anus, cool and moist, and he spread his legs, arching helpfully as he was stretched.  When he was ready, Christopher placed his left palm over one butt cheek, and slid inside.  He pumped his hips back and forth in a smooth, easy motion, moaning softly, and slipped his left hand around Tom’s hip, pulling slightly.  Tom got the idea, and started pushing back to meet his thrusts.

 

He wasn’t even hard, Tom noted disinterestedly.  It was like even his perversion had given up.   

 

_SMACK!_

“Faster.”

 

Tom gasped for breath, his back stinging from where he’d been struck.  The crop came down again, this time making his cry out softly.   
  
“I said, faster.”

 

Tom pushed back forcefully, and upped his tempo, his total lack of arousal making the motion feel oddly silly. 

 

_SMACK!_

“Faster.”

 

Tom pumped hard, fucking back on Christopher’s cock.  He was getting breathless, thighs aching with exhaustion. 

 

_SMACK!_

 

There was no cry of “faster”, but Tom sped up anyway, panting openly now as he slammed back from his elbows for leverage. 

 

The crop came down again, and again, each time making Tom flinch.  He went as fast as he could, but he soon realized that Christopher was probably doing it for the way Tom clenched around his cock when struck. 

 

Tom bowed his head, and fucked back furiously, clenching his muscles tight and gripping.  _The sooner he comes_ , he thought, _the sooner he’ll stop hitting me._   His back was on fire, each hit producing a sharp bite that faded to a dull sting that settled under the skin, making it more and more vulnerable to the next attack. 

 

Finally, the hot slosh of spunk spilled inside him, and he slumped into his elbows, sighing with relief.  Christopher pulled out and Tom felt the warm trickle of cum seep from his arsehole. 

 

Christopher reached between his legs and cupped his genitals, _hmm_ ing discontentedly when he found his soft.  Then, he seemed to brighten. 

 

“I know what you like,” he grunted menacingly, and then Tom felt something odd and thin press inside his oozing hole. 

 

He his crumpled helplessly and he whimpered. 

 

“That what your cunt needs?” Christopher demanded, stabbing the crop into his prostate with hard, ruthless thrusts.  “Pretty red whore, this what you need?”

 

Tom sniffled, his cock swelling with every thrust.  “Yes,” he choked. 

 

“Dirty, wicked slut.  I should beat your arse instead of fucking it,” he threatened savagely. 

 

Tom nodded desperately.  “Yes, please,” he begged, with a sincerity that frightened him.  “Beat my arse, please.  I’m a dirty slut, I need you to beat my arse.”

 

The crop was pulled out roughly and came down hard on top of Tom’s buttocks.  Christopher spanked him brutally, and Tom pressed his face deeper into the bed with every blow.  But he also shoved his arse into the air and spread his legs, eager, desperate even, for the punishment. 

 

He reached between his legs and jacked gracelessly at his cock. 

 

He came with a muffled scream into his hand, catching the offensive fluid in his other palm.  Christopher hit him once or twice more as he came down, then stopped.  Tom took the hot sludge in his hand, and rubbed it inelegantly over his ruined arse, a snarling grimace playing at his mouth.  When he was satisfied, he dropped his hand to bed with an exhausted sigh. 

 

Christopher tucked the crop under his chin, and lifted him.  When he stood on his knees, his ran the tongue of the crop over his face, stopping at his lips.  Tom kissed the crop complacently, wide and open mouthed over the warm leather.  Christopher took it away with a final brush to his tongue, and brought his hand behind Tom’s head for a kiss of his own. 

 

“Welcome home,” he breathed warmly, a soft smile playing at his lips.

 

Tom put a hand in Christopher’s hair, and brought their mouths together with a crash.           

 

 


	15. In which Chris has far too much fun with his new toy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of dark, disturbing porn ficlets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual non-con and physical/verbal abuse in this one, plus the abusive relationship aspect is only getting stronger. This is all about the riding crop, so be prepared for that. More specific warnings for: genital and anal spanking, mild blood play, some forced feminization, forced auto-fellatio, forced orgasm/prostate milking, gags and nipple clamps, and self-abuse. This is a long one, the longest single chapter so far I think, and its pretty much all non-con sex and abuse.
> 
> edit: Dude, did I seriously not tag this as D/s or BDSM? That is as gross oversight on my part. I mean, there's a freakin' riding crop. ::rolls eyes:: I'm an idiot.

 

 

Tom didn’t go to the headmaster’s party, ignoring Tilda’s calls with an impassive flick of his wrist.  Christopher spent nearly every day of the winter holiday at Tom’s.

 

And he loved his Christmas present. 

 

 

 

 

 

Tom sat up on his knees at the foot of the bed, facing out, legs spread apart, and back straight.  His hands were placed behind his head, baring his nakedness in a profoundly total manner.  His back and buttocks were still red, though the sting had faded somewhat. 

 

Christopher meandered about him, again running the crop over him in teasing, threatening strokes.  First, over his already marked back and backside, tickling between his arse and thighs, and next over his face, pushing against one cheek hard enough to make his head turn.  Then, down his chest and over his nipples, and along his stomach coming to fondle his hardening cock. 

 

The first strike, almost gentle in its delicacy, came across his right nipple, making him twinge harshly and fight to keep his position.  A flat snap against his other nipple, then the first, and back again.  His nubs grew red and hot, stinging fiercely in the air. 

 

Eventually, Christopher moved on, moving lower on the abdomen.  These smacks were harder, and his stomach muscles clenched jarringly with every blow. He winced, and fought the impulse to buck forward over his torso, half afraid he might fall off the bed. 

 

Christopher slapped the crop along his ribs, and then down along his abdominal muscles to the soft skin of his lower belly.  Then, he made a long stroke with the tongue along his cock. 

 

Tom’s eyes closed and breathed in sharp through his nose, jaw clenching. 

 

His erection stood out nearly horizontal, bobbing gently in the air. 

 

A brush of wind, and the crop whipped down on the head of his cock, sending it swinging downwards.  Tom screamed behind his teeth, biting inside his cheek and swaying forward, fingernails clamping into the back of his head.  His cock bobbed back up, still flush with engorged blood, a solid sting and subtle ache blooming steadily. 

 

His first absurd thought was, _that wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it’d be_. 

 

 

 

 

 

Christopher ran his hands over the lace panties clinging to Tom’s nether regions.  Tom was laid on his back, legs wide with his feet back behind his head.  His hands held at his knees, pushed back against the mattress behind him so his arse stuck straight into the air. 

 

Christopher had insisted he wear the panties again, saying they made him look ‘sexy’.  Fingers ran over the delicate fabric covering his arse and genitals, incredibly poorly in Tom’s opinion, sometimes squeezing the red-clad mounds of flesh delightedly.  Then firm thumbs ran down the middle over his penis, scrotum and down to his anus, at which point they dug in, breaking the fragile fabric and tearing it open, revealing his arse and cock.  Tom tried not to roll his eyes at the sheer senselessness of it all. 

 

Christopher was massaging over his arsehole and bollocks, and looked down at Tom with heated affection. 

 

“I wanna spank your hole,” he crooned.

 

Tom’s only response was to reach down and pull his arse and ripped panties wider, his expression utterly placid. 

 

Christopher reached for the crop and placed the tongue over his bared anus.  The firm leather sent something cold running up Tom’s spine like electricity: anticipation, though he wasn’t sure of what kind. 

 

The first swat sent tears immediately to the corners of his eyes and a thrill through his cock.  It was a new, intimate kind of pain, and his hips shifted unconsciously as his nails dug deeper under the folds of his arse.  Christopher hit him again, harder, and he bit his lip, grunting.  Then Christopher started talking.

 

“Filthy hole,” he intoned, almost rhythmically, punctuating his words with solid slaps.  “Dirty faggot cunt.  Wicked slut, with a wicked slut hole.  Bad, naughty professor.  You’re nothing but cum and shit, aren’t you?”  A hard blow echoed in the air.  “Aren’t you?” 

 

Tears poured silently out the corners of his eyes and down sides of his face.  His cock hardened.

 

“I’m nothing but cum and shit,” Tom whispered, tears streaming. 

 

“Bad professor,” Christopher chastised, and brought the long, thin shaft of the crop down flat between Tom’s cheeks.  Tom winced hard, sniffling brokenly at this stiff, unbending rod hit his sensitive and sensitized flesh.  “Bad.”  Christopher, again hitting him with the long pole of the crop with a solid, sickening thud. 

 

“Bad.”

 

“Naughty”

 

“Wicked.”

 

“Dirty.”

 

“Whore.” 

 

He threw the crop on the bed and stretched at Tom’s anus with his thumbs, rubbing coarsely around the outside of his entrance.  He lifted one thumb, and sucked the pad into his mouth, pulling it out with a pop.  Then he reached down and smeared the other thumb across Tom’s lips. 

 

“Now you really look like a whore,” he rumbled eagerly.  Tom pressed his lips together, and tasted copper.

 

Two finger breached him, covered in lube, and Tom gasped hotly at the pain.  Christopher knelt over him, tall and impenetrable.  He regarded Tom thoughtfully, and pressed down with his weight.  Tom breathed in sharply as his back bent further. 

 

“Think you could suck your own cock?”

 

Tom looked up sharply, almost managing to feel real alarm.

 

“I bet you could,” Christopher went on, hardly pausing for a response.  He pushed down harder and Tom keened as he was compressed, folded nearly in half.  “You’ll like that.  Get a cock in your whore mouth and your whore cunt at the same time.”  As he bore down, he continued working Tom open with his fingers.  In what seemed far too little time and far to easily, Tom’s cock brushed his face.  “Open your mouth.” 

 

Tom did, and the head of his penis slipped inside.  He whimpered, almost sobbing, and Christopher pressed him further, forcing the shaft deeper into the cavern of his waiting mouth. 

 

Tom felt like screaming as a strangely acute panic washed through him.

 

“Go on, suck it,” Christopher ordered, three fingers thrusting in his arse.  Tom closed his lips and tried to bob, lifting his head to take himself further. 

 

He moaned.

 

God, it did feel good. 

 

As Christopher sunk his cock into his arse, a cock in his mouth and a mouth on his cock, Tom was sent nearly into overload.  He was assaulted by sensation, pleasure and pain of so many different sorts his brain could hardly process them. 

 

There was just one thing missing.

 

He pulled off of his cock, turning his face to the side.  He gasped a moment, and looked sideways up at Christopher. 

 

“Talk to me,” he bade him tearfully, before taking his cock back into his mouth 

 

Christopher smiled, and complied. 

 

“Filthy cock-sucking whore, faggot slut, cum-guzzling dirty cunt slag.”

 

Tom groaned and came in his own mouth.  He swallowed, andlet his softening cock slide from his lips, leaving a streak of cum along his cheek. 

 

“Suck it again,” Christopher commanded, still pumping inside him. 

 

Tom parted his lips and sucked the tip into his mouth, wincing immediately.  It was too sensitive, too soon after orgasm.  Still, he put his hot mouth along the shaft and sucked it back to hardness, sobbing. 

 

“Dirty fuck-toy slut, you like being a fucking whore don’t you, a fucking cock-sucking whore with a cock-sucking mouth, you’d live on cum if you could wouldn’t you, filthy fucking faggot, live for fucking cock don’t you, you dirty fucking whore.” 

 

Tom came, and so did Christopher, and Tom was flooded from both ends, hot spunk gushing wetly inside.  He swallowed again, forcing himself to drink it all so he wouldn’t choke. 

 

Christopher pulled out and immediately replaced his cock with four hard fingers, plunging into his prostate with certitude and might. 

 

“Keep sucking.” 

 

This time Tom screamed, gagging around his cock as it engorged inside his mouth.  His jaw threatened to clench, so he shoved fingers between his teeth to keep from biting down. 

 

“I’m gonna make you come.  Again.  You’re gonna come so hard and so long there’s not gonna be any cum left in your dirty faggot cock.  And with every filthy drop you’re gonna know how much of whore you really are.  You’re the sluttiest whore there ever was.  There’s never been a whore as cheap and trashy and twisted as you.” 

 

Tom came for a third time, sobbing through his nose, and Christopher pressed into his prostate and milked him.  He could only weep helplessly and try to swallow the surge of cum drowning his mouth.  Eventually he was completely spent, and his cock softened enough for some of the cum to dribble out his mouth.  Then it fell from his lips, twitching painfully, and Tom turned his head to the side, coughing and spitting up gobs of spunk, his face bright red and wheezing. 

 

Christopher pulled the ruined panties from his legs, guiding the long limbs to lay flat upon the bed.  Tom ached, everywhere, from his back and legs, to his arse and throat and cock.  Christopher rubbed the lace sloppily over Tom’s face, doing little more than spread the cum messily all over. 

 

“You should wear red more,” Christopher told him tenderly.  “That’s a whore’s color.” 

 

 

 

Christopher didn’t spend the night that night, and Tom was left alone in his dirty sheets.  He lay on his stomach, cheek pressed against a pillow as he stared vacantly out into the darkness.  His anus was badly bruised, but had really only bled a little, a few drops springing from the spongy skin. 

 

He reached behind and fingered delicately at the abused entrance, experiencing the pain with a kind of strange curiosity.  Almost without realizing it, he shifted his legs apart and tilted his hips up.  Then he laid three fingers flat against his hole and crack, at first just experiencing the slight, stable pressure. 

 

He slapped down, hardly grunting at the impact. 

 

 _Bad_. 

 

He hit himself again.

_Bad._

He went on for a while, he didn’t know how long, a numb fog spreading coolly over him, as that one word chanted in his head like an incantation. 

 

 

 

 

 

“I got you something,” Christopher teased, smiling jovially, hands hidden behind his back.  Tom blinked, unable to think of what to say.  Christopher walked up and kissed him lightly.  “Think of it as a New Year’s present,” he said roguishly, and handed him a small shopping bag.

 

Tom took it numbly.  “I didn’t get you anything,” he whispered, almost un-fearfully. 

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Christopher said easily, rubbing Tom’s shoulders.  “I just saw them, and I knew you had to have them.  They’re perfect.”  He leaned in conspiratorially.  “I like spoiling you.” 

 

Tom looked down and opened the bag, pulling its contents out with a soft clangor.  He looked up to see Christopher watching him expectantly. 

 

“They’re beautiful,” Tom said dully.  Christopher smiled. 

 

 

 

Naked again, Tom knelt on the edge of the bed.  Black leather wound round his head, ending in a metal circle that stretched his mouth open obscenely.  Attached at the corners were clipped matching chains that hung down and attached to clamps affixed to his nipples.  The clamps tugged with every move of his head, sending shooting stabs of pain and arousal. 

 

Christopher brought out the riding crop, and his eye twitched. 

 

Christopher sauntered up to him, the riding crop swinging lazily from his hand.  He ran it up the side of Tom’s thigh and over his buttocks, before rubbing it solidly between his arse.  Tom didn’t move, hands hanging at his sides.  Then Christopher cupped a hand to his cheek, and moved in.  He ran his tongue behind Tom’s teeth, spread open by the gag, and then stabbed it into Tom’s gaping mouth. 

 

He pulled back.  “Stick out your tongue.”  Tom did, feeling awkward.  Christopher tucked it between thumb and forefinger, pulling, and licked a long stripe down the center.  He tucked it into his mouth and sucked, pulling away with a sharp bite to the tip.  Tom pulled his tongue back into his mouth feeling strangely, acutely violated. 

 

Then, Christopher took the crop, and placed the handle in Tom’s hand, wrapping his fingers round it firmly. 

 

Tom looked at it dumbly, and with an heartening smile, Christopher guided him to press the tongue against the curve of his arse. 

 

“Go on,” Christopher coaxed, smiling kindly. 

 

Tom gripped the handle in a tight fist, frozen with a kind of daunting horror. 

 

Slowly, he learned to move again, and shifted his arm, jerking it so that the crop fell across his backside with a dull smack. 

 

“Here,” Christopher offered, covering Tom’s hand with his own.  “Let me show you.” 

 

He lifted Tom’s hand and brought down with hard swing, angling it to land tightly against side of his buttock.  Tom jumped slightly, and Christopher laughed, low and hearty. 

 

“Lean forward,” he suggested, presenting a hand.  “ And hang on to me.” 

 

Tom took hold of Christopher’s arm with his other hand, leaning his chest against Christopher’s solid frame, who placed a steadying hand at the back of his neck.   

 

“Now try.”

 

Tom breathed deeply, and, practicing his swing, managed to give his backside a solid whack, hard enough to make him squeal. 

 

“There you go, you’re getting it,” Christopher applauded. 

 

Tom took a few more deep breaths, and swung again.  It took a few more tries, but he soon found the best way to arc backwards and swat the crop down over the mounds of his arse.  Thorny stings of pain bloomed over his skin as he panted wetly, drool slobbering from his open mouth.

 

The hand at his neck pressed downward and he bent lower till he was in much the same position he would be if on all fours, only instead of pushing up on his arms, he clung with one hand at Christopher’s shirt.  Christopher held him tightly be the hair, and shoved his cock between his stretched lips.  The clamps wrenched on his nipples as Christopher fucked his mouth, the chains jangling crudely.  He kept at his flogging, even as his arm tired with every biting lick of stiff leather. 

 

“Look at me.” 

 

Tom struggled to lift his eyes.  Christopher stared down on with undisguised lust, eyes hot and penetrating.  He ran a thumb across Tom’s cheek, wet with fallen tears, and then around the edge of his stuffed mouth.  Then, he held out a hand, palm up. 

 

Tom handed over the crop gratefully, now stabilizing himself with both hands braced at Christopher’s hips.  Christopher tightened the fist in his hair, and raised his arm. 

 

Tom forced himself not to close his eyes. 

 

The first blow came across his shoulders and Tom screamed around the cock in his mouth.  He pushed his eyes to stay open, wide and dry as Christopher bored down into them.  Christopher fucked his mouth with stern, unfaltering, even thrusts and rained down unholy vengeance upon his aching back.  Nothing was left untouched, and harsh stings soon covered him, from his shoulders to the crest of his arse. 

 

Christopher came down his throat with a violent, breathy shout, buried in Tom up to the root.  Coarse hairs prickled against his nose as Christopher drove his face into the flat of his stomach, an unyielding hand held to the back of his head. 

 

He drew out slowly, lingering in Tom’s unresisting mouth, pulsing his softening cock shallowly in and around the defenseless cavern. 

 

Tom’s jaw ached and his nipples were numb, not to mention the solid wall of stinging skin that made up his back.  Christopher eased him back on his heels, and Tom looked down to see evidence of his own orgasm splattered over the edge of the bed.  He hadn’t even noticed. 

 

Christopher unbuckled the harness around his skull, and extracted the ring from his mouth, stroking affectionately over his sore and brittle lips.  Tom licked over them, trying to add some desperately needed moisture. 

 

Then, Christopher yanked hard with the gag in his hand and tore the clamps from his nipples.  Tom’s shrill and shattered scream rattled reverberating through the room as his hand flew protectively over the abused nubs. 

 

Christopher let out a warm and tender laugh, and lifted Tom’s chin. 

 

“See?” said Christopher, caressing the leather and metal he held against Tom’s skin in way that made him shudder.  “I told you they were perfect.” 

 

 

 

 

 

Tom stood, naked, in front of the sink, working open a bottle of aspirin with shaking hands.  He poured out two capsules, forcing himself to take no more than the recommended dose.  The bottle was nearly two thirds empty, and he’d only bought it a two weeks ago, taking two pills almost every four hours.  He’d thought about trying to get a hold of something stronger, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to open that potentially treacherous door.  He slammed pills back, his mouth feeling uncomfortably dry. 

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Tom froze, eyes sliding to Christopher in the doorway. 

 

He walked across to Tom, and snatched the bottle from his hand, inspecting it.  Face grim, he held out his hand, palm up. 

 

Tom stood frozen for a moment, trembling slightly, jaw clenched.  Then, he slowly leaned over and spat out the pills into Christopher’s hand. 

 

He stared unseeing as Christopher flushed them down the toilet and silently left the washroom, taking the bottle with him.  As the door closed behind him, Tom bent over the sink, and wept.     

 

 

 

 

 

Christopher decided it was better to keep his crop and all ‘their’ things at Tom’s.  It was clearly Tom’s responsibility to take care of them, and he was of course motivated to keep everything clean and in working order.  As he rubbed disinfectant over stiff braided leather he kept his mind utterly blank, his hands moving with numbing efficiency.  He placed the crop across the top of his chest of drawers, a place of honor reserved for it alone.  It lay in plain sight as he worked on the rest of implements, kept in the bottom drawer.  He tried not to look at it, but it didn’t matter.  It was there even when he closed his eyes.       

 


	16. In which we go back to school and Tom's self loathing reaches yet another low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em", is not always good advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's another longish one. It's got some forced feminization again, yet more spanking, very rough sex, a bit of bondage, blood and cum play, and quite a lot of dirty talk/verbal abuse even by this fic's standards. I think that covers everything.

 

 

The last day before classes resumed, Christopher brought him another present. 

 

“For your first day back,” he told him softly, eyes twinkling.  Tom was almost more irritated than apprehensive.  He was getting quite tired of Christopher’s ‘gifts.’ 

 

He opened the package and took out what it held, holding it with disdainful fingers. _Oh good, more panties._   These were pale pink and slid smooth and soft between his fingers, two garish bows at the hips and another sitting in the back in the center of the waistband.  Delicate lace details decorated bottom edges.

 

“Wear it tomorrow?”  It wasn’t really a question. 

 

“Of course,” Tom replied, feeling bitter.  He didn’t know why it should bother him.  This would hardly be his worst humiliation.  Hell, he could almost see the appeal, he thought, running the silky fabric through his fingers.  It was just the way Christopher looked at him, the way he _would_ look at him in class knowing what he wore under his clothes, that stripped him down and left him barren.  Degraded. 

 

Christopher left him that night, kissing him goodbye with a muted “See you tomorrow”.  Tom tried to steel himself for the coming day.  Part of him was looking forward to resuming classes.  The other felt utterly worn out. 

 

He moved through the following day nearly un-heedful of the sleek fabric under his trousers, focusing on his morning classes with a happy, tired intent.  At lunch, he ducked into the teacher’s lounge, head down, desperate for a cup of coffee.  He ignored the soft chattering from around him and headed straight for his objective. 

 

“Hey, Tom,” he heard Tilda call to him in a tone that indicated he was being pulled into a conversation.  He sighed, turning.  “Have you met the new football coach?” 

 

Tom blinked.  “No.”  Then he actually thought, brow furrowing.  “Mid-year?  Isn’t that…“ he trailed off. 

 

“Bit unusual, yeah,” Tilda finished for him.  “No one’s seen him yet.  Name’s Christopher…Evans, I think?”  Tom tried not to wince at ‘Christopher’.  “You like football, Tom?”

 

Tom blinked at the question.  “I mean…yeah, sure.  I was more into rugby in school, and I mostly watch tennis now, but…” he let out a breathy almost laugh.  “No one doesn’t like football.” 

 

“Some of us were gonna go down to this pub in town, watch the semi-finals, maybe have a few drinks.  You should come along,” she said, her tone deceptively light. 

 

Tom flicked his eyes down to his coffee and back up again.  “Maybe,” he said evasively, and Tilda dropped her eyes, face unchanging but still somehow managing to express something like disappointment.  

 

“Evans is supposed to be good though,” someone else chimed in.  “I heard—“ 

 

Tom ran from Tilda and her disappointment, eyes fixed on the floor as he gripped his coffee. 

 

“He’ll be the new Health teacher too, of course.”

 

“Of course!”  Soft laughter. 

 

Tom left, and returned to his classroom. 

 

 

 

His last class was deeply uncomfortable.  Normally, he was pretty good at putting aside the rest of his relationship with Christopher, but with silken panties sliding over his nethers he kept being keenly aware of the boy regarding him under hooded eyes.  Even the plug hadn’t left him feeling this scrutinized, having been distracting enough on his own that he hardly noticed Christopher. 

 

He ended the class with relief, sagging in his chair for a few minutes before rising and heading home. 

 

Christopher was waiting for him on the couch. 

 

Tom nearly threw his things to the floor, letting them drop with less than little care, before moving to join him.  He remembered when he used to leave his curtains open, he thought, vaguely mournful, as he approached the darkened room.    

 

Christopher gestured to his knee, and Tom sat, perching in his lap with cool, unmoving features. 

 

“Have you been naughty, Professor?” Christopher prompted, playful. 

 

“Yes,” Tom responded, flat and disinterested. 

 

“You’ve been a bad, naughty professor, haven’t you?” Christopher questioned again, squeezing his arse. 

 

“Yes,” Tom repeated. 

 

“You need to be punished, don’t you Professor?” he spoke huskily and rubbed over Tom’s rump hungrily.  “You know you deserve it.”    

 

Something broke, and Tom felt arousal, along with something darker, unfurl like smoke from the center of his stomach. 

 

“Yes,” he agreed, and pressed back against Christopher’s hand.  He turned sharp eyes to Christopher, bringing a hand up behind his head.  “I need to be punished.  I’m bad,” he hissed, suddenly fierce and ravenous.  “I need you to beat my whoring arse.  Please,” his voice turned imploring.  “Will you beat my whore arse?” 

 

Christopher put a hand in his hair and yanked, running a thumb over Tom’s mouth, his other hand pulling brutishly at buckle of Tom’s belt. 

 

“You need a spanking, you filthy slut?” he demanded as Tom sucked on his thumb.  “That what you need?”

 

Tom nodded vigorously and pulled off with a wet pop. 

 

“Yes, I need a spanking,” he agreed, gasping lightly.  “Will you spank your whore?  Please?  Please, he needs it, needs you to spank his arse.” 

 

Christopher pulled him up, shoving down his trousers, and heaved him across his knees.  He fondled over Tom’s rear, pink fabric sliding against his skin.  Tom moaned. 

 

“Yes,” Tom rasped.  “Spank your whore, spank your dirty whore,” he begged just as Christopher’s palm struck.  He groaned deeply, and arched his buttocks up for the next blow. 

 

Christopher’s large hands hit him solidly, each slap leaving behind a satisfying sound and loud sting. 

 

“Dirty slut,” Christopher growled, pausing to rub smooth fabric into his abused skin.  He smacked him again, and Tom whimpered.  “You know what a dirty slut you are, don’t you,” he said with certainty.  Tom nodded helplessly.  He stroked his thumb over Tom’s anus through the panties.  “You like that?” he prompted.  “Like my thumb on your pussy, like me rubbing your panties and your cunt?” 

 

Tom was desperately hard, silky fabric clinging to his stiff erection as he humped Christopher’s leg shamelessly. 

 

“You want me to slick up and fuck your pussy?” Christopher challenged.  “Or you want me to spank you till you come in your panties?”

 

Tom moaned, face hot and clammy, and undulated against Christopher’s thigh.  He gasped. 

 

“Spank me,” he said, low and breathy. 

 

“I knew you’d say that,” said Christopher, pleased.  He struck him with an easy brutality and Tom felt his punisher’s clothed cock swell underneath him.  “Come on, slut,” Christopher said as he lavished hurt upon his arse.  “Come in your panties, come in your pink, satin panties, you filthy whore.” 

 

Tom arched up, groaning, and did just that, drenching the thin fabric with oozing spunk.  Christopher rubbed and groped his arse as he shuddered, thrusting against Christopher’s leg as he spent himself. 

 

As he lay panting, Christopher turned him over, laying Tom’s back across his lap.  He took hold of Tom’s crotch, twisting and turning his genitals inside pink fabric, cum squishing crudely around his cock and balls.  Tom looked up at him mutely, something hard and gruesome settling in his chest.  He reached a hand to the side of Christopher’s face, turning him to gaze into his eyes, his own staring wide and half-wild. 

 

“Fuck me dry,” he said clearly. 

 

Christopher’s face broke into a broad smile, teeth glittering ferally in the muted light. 

 

 

 

Christopher tied him to the bed, both their clothes and the satin underwear scattered forgotten on the floor.  He was on his knees and elbows, his feet tied securely at the ankles to the bottom corners of the bed frame.  It splayed his legs pornographically across the width of the bed, and he arched his back lewdly to make the view even more obscene. 

 

Christopher slid a condom on to protect his cock, and fondled the pucker of Tom’s entrance. 

 

“You want me to stretch you?” he asked with idle curiosity. 

 

“No,” Tom answered promptly, his voice hushed but strong. 

 

Christopher didn’t comment, and merely lined himself up along Tom’s completely unprepared hole.  He jammed in and Tom flinched hard, biting his lip.  Again, this time getting a little deeper.  A third time, and Tom was shaking.  Then, Christopher gripped Tom’s hips and pulled back as he thrust, burying to the hilt. 

 

Tom threw his head back, and screamed, loud and violent.  He relished the sound, and as Christopher started fucking in and out of him he inhaled and screamed again, his throat breaking harshly with the strain.  There were no tears.  He bared his teeth and shouted his pain out like a war cry, head up and fingers fisting in the blankets as his pushed up on his elbows. 

 

Christopher slaughtered him, plunging roughly with every stroke, his hands tight on the globes of his reddened arse, and Tom wordlessly urged him on, willing his own ruthless energy through Christopher to propel every savage thrust. 

 

When Christopher finished, Tom was trembling, not with fear or anger, but with ferocity.  Christopher pulled out and Tom grunted with savored ardor at the faint tearing pressure. 

 

He looked over his shoulder and saw Christopher, majestic and satisfied behind him, reaching for the condom at his wilting cock. 

 

“Wait,” Tom said sharply.  Christopher looked at him, and Tom softened, very, very slightly.  “Please.” 

 

For a moment they just stared at each other.  Then, almost watchfully, Christopher untied the binds at his ankles.  Tom turned, stretching his muscles, clenching around the pain in his arse. 

 

He lowered himself, and put his mouth on Christopher’s softened member.  He sucked in the drooping condom at the tip, and then opened his lips along the latex coated shaft.  He could taste his own blood and he sucked hungrily, bringing Christopher back to hardness. 

 

“Filthy whore,” Christopher intoned appreciatively as his cock swelled in Tom’s mouth.  “Filthy, filthy, whore.” 

 

Tom flicked up his eyes, glaring heatedly as his own cock finally began to fill again.  He pulled off when Christopher was fully erect, ripping off the condom and tossing it to the floor. 

 

“Come in me,” Tom commanded. 

 

Christopher smirked lustfully, and fell to his back onto the bed, pulling Tom on top of him. 

 

“Ride me,” Christopher commanded back. 

 

Tom agreeably straddled him, reaching behind to line up Christopher’s cock with his entrance, now slick with blood.  He swirled his hips, fondling the tip against his anus before slipping the head inside.  Christopher raised hands to his hips to steady him.

 

He gazed down on Christopher, naked and flushed upon the bed.  He undulated again, still only letting the head of Christopher’s cock inside him.  He watched Christopher with lazy attention, his body brimming with simmering heat and restrained energy. 

 

He slammed down, sitting flat on Christopher’s hips and squeezing his knees along his sides.  He let out a lustful grunt and braced his hands against Christopher’s firm abdominals. 

 

Christopher was moaning. 

 

“You like that?” Tom demanded, swirling his hips.  “You like your cock in my bleeding arse?  You like fucking my filthy, bleeding arse?”  Christopher let out another long moan.  Tom leaned forward, scratching his nails along Christopher’s stomach and chest. 

 

“You like my filthy cunt, huh?” He grabbed Christopher hair, soaking in his glittering blue eyes greedily.  He nipped his bottom lip.  “You like fucking my filthy, faggot, cunt?”  He pulsed gently on Christopher’s erection. 

 

“Yes,” Christopher said, voice low in his chest. 

 

“You like my dirty, slutty, cunt.  You want to come in me?  You want come in my filthy cum-hole?”  Christopher groaned, cock twitching.  “You want to _fuck_ your _dirty slut_ and come in my _dirty slut arse_? 

 

“Yes.”

 

“You were made to fuck me, weren’t you?” Tom asked viciously.  “Made to fuck my whoring cunt, fill me up with cock and spunk.  Made to _fuck_ my whore mouth and _fuck_ my whore arse.  Made to fuck me—your dirty.  Whoring.  Slut.” 

 

“Yes,” Christopher ground out, hips bucking. 

 

“Whose whore am I?” Tom questioned roughly, snarling and almost mad. 

 

“Mine,” Christopher confirmed, deep and rumbling.

 

Tom sat back, and fucked himself on Christopher cock.  He closed his eyes and gnashed his teeth through the pain as he selfishly sought his own pleasure, head tilted back in rapture.  He pumped hard and sensuous, a hedonistic priest in some heathen, orgiastic temple. 

 

He took one of Christopher’s hands from his hips and put it on his cock.  Christopher worked him with long, heavy strokes, and Tom peered down at him through dark, hooded eyes. 

 

“You want me to come on you?  Spill my filthy cum all over your chest?  You want me to cover you in filth and then _lick it up?_ ”  Christopher growled hungrily, and pumped him harder.  “You want me filthy?” Tom questioned, voice dropping almost to a whisper.  Christopher watched him, and nodded, chest heaving.  “Come in me,” he snapped quietly, demanding.  “Come in your filthy whore.” 

 

Christopher spilled in him, groaning feverishly, and Tom closed his eyes, clenching hard, and spurted his own orgasm over Christopher’s firm, glowing muscles with a savage, snarling roar.  When they were both spent, Tom lifted on his knees, keeping his arse clamped tight as he drew from Christopher’s cock.  It slithered out of him wetly, dropping with a dull plop. 

 

Then Tom crawled up Christopher’s torso till he was perched, squatting, over his stomach.  It was already streaked with Tom’s own cum, and Tom braced his hands against Christopher shoulders, readying himself. 

 

“Spread my arse,” Tom said tersely, staring down into Christopher’s face.  Christopher obediently raised his hands, and held Tom’s stinging cheeks open wide. 

 

Tom unclenched, and let hot spunk pour out of him onto Christopher already soiled skin.  His face grimaced, contorting.  He felt beyond disgusting, beyond depraved.  Hateful revulsion clawed up his throat as a putrid, rotten filth settled like topsoil on and under his skin. 

 

The last dribbles drained out of him and he lowered his arse to sit in the sludge.  He rolled in it.  He slid back and forth, spreading it over Christopher’s smooth chest and stomach.  His jaw worked in time to his hips, glaring down fiercely, as he enveloped himself in an invisible cloak of muck.

 

When he was satisfied, he lifted up and shifted back down Christopher’s body.  Christopher’s golden skin was smeared with milky slop, streaked with red from Tom’s torn and bloody arse. 

 

He lowered his face, and licked.  He made broad stripes with the flat of his tongue, swallowing blood and cum with equal relish.  At last, Christopher lay clean, gleaming in the low light.  Tom raised his eyes, remaining prone along his chest to look up at Christopher with challenging savagery. 

 

Christopher put a gentle hand in his hair, and raised him till their faces lay inches apart. 

 

“Filthy whore,” Christopher murmured, stroking along his cheek affectionately.  “You’re my filthy whore.” 

 

“Yours,” Tom answered Christopher vehemently, then bent down and bit his mouth.      

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, would you look at that, is that another character making an appearance? Did you catch it? It was the five minutes near the beginning that wasn't porn.


	17. In which Evans finally gets some lines, and Tom gets seriously tortured some more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christopher's mad about something. That's not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have some longish notes today, please bear with me.
> 
> 1: I just wanted to give another reminder that this is not really a Chris/Tom shipping fic, and I can pretty much guarantee that they DO NOT end up together. I don't know who, if anyone, Tom might end up with romantically by the end of this story, but it sure isn't gonna be Chris Hemsworth. I've been saying that for a while, but I wanted to be extra clear about that. Christopher is the villain of this story. He doesn't get a happy ending (at least not with Tom).
> 
> 2: Tom's torture will be coming to an end in, oh, about 5 chapters or so, but it is DEFINITELY darkest before the dawn. I don't know what recesses of my twisted mind this stuff crawled out of, but please be EXTRA WARNED. If I don't squick every single one of you in these next few chapters, I will be very surprised. 
> 
> Which kind of brings me to 3: It's taking a little longer to edit these, because I'm sort of reluctant to read what I wrote it's so fucked up. So updates might be a little slower. 
> 
> So, lastly, here are the warnings for this chapter: ABUSE (riding crop makes another appearance), bondage, some genital torture, oral...weirdness, plus bladder desperation and wetting (not particularly sexy, imo). Also, plugging, oral sex and skimpy underwear, but that's practically vanilla by this fic's standards.

 

 

Christopher bought him more underwear, silk and lacy scraps of fabric.  It wasn’t everyday, but every so often he would lay a pair on his nightstand and Tom knew he was expected to wear them the next morning.  Occasionally, there’d be a plug laid on top, and Top would obediently wear that too. 

 

He visited during the week now, as well as the weekends.  There was no pattern; some days he’d be there, others he wouldn’t.  Tom learned to take advantage of his moments of respite, taking care of whatever hurts he might have earned and catching up on his work.  He was never without some marks on him anymore, deep bruises or red blotches scattered over his body. 

 

The new football coach was still what passed for gossip at the school, which Tom stayed mostly apart from.  He’d seen the latest addition to the staff—tall, short blond hair, handsome—but hadn’t met him yet.  He just couldn’t bring himself to make the effort. 

 

He sat at his desk between periods marking papers.  The black thong he wore rode up his arse and pressed against the base of the plug inside him.  The plug was short, but wide, and bulged uncomfortably just within his entrance.

 

Suddenly, he heard a knock against the door. 

 

“Excuse me,” said an accented voice.  “I’m sorry, but I seem to have gotten completely turned around; which way to the teacher’s lounge?” 

 

Tom looked up, startled, and found Mr. Evans sticking his head around the door, looking sheepish.  

 

When Tom didn’t respond right away, Evans went on.  “See, I thought it was down _that_ hall to the left,” he said pointing.  “But that hall doesn’t actually have a left, and now I’m totally confused.” 

 

“You’re American,” Tom blurted stupidly. 

 

Evans smiled crookedly.  “So I’ve heard.  About…thirty or forty times,” he said, not unkindly. 

 

“I’m…so sorry,” stammered Tom, ducking his head, embarrassed.  He stood awkwardly. “I—“

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Evans assured him easily.  “We haven’t met yet, right?”  Not really waiting for an answer, he walked and offered a hand.  “I’m Chris, new football coach, and Health and Wellness teacher.” 

 

“…Tom,” he replied, shaking the offered hand.  “I…teach English.”  He gestured vaguely. 

 

“Nice to meet you,” Chris said brightly.  “Now…about that teachers lounge…” he began leadingly. 

 

Tom nodded with a little embarrassed laugh.  “Right.  It’s actually exactly where you think it is…one floor up.”

 

Chris closed his eyes and groaned.  “I’m an idiot.” 

 

“No, it’s…” Tom reassured hastily.  “All the levels look alike, it’s not—“

 

“No, no,” Chris broke in matter of factly.  “I’m an idiot.  Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he quipped.  “I’m gonna go kick myself over to the teachers lounge.”  Tom’s lips quirked in spite of himself.  Chris made to leave, waving lightly.  “Thanks.  And, nice to meet you.”

 

“You too,” said Tom quietly. 

 

 

 

 

 

Christopher held the riding crop handle tightly, and clutched the other end in his other fist.  His eyes were strangely dark as he looked over Tom, scrutinizing almost harshly. 

 

Tom lay spread eagled on the bed, naked but for the lace thong. The thong consisted of a sheer patterned lace that concealed absolutely nothing.  He cock was beginning to swell, the shape clearly visible as it bulged against the fabric.  Smooth, hard rubber still plugged his arse.  It had been another of Christopher’s ‘presents.’  It ran only four inches from base to tip, but, teardrop shaped, it was nearly as wide as it was tall near the base.  Christopher had left both it and the thong for him to find that morning, the rubber matching lace in a deep, imposing black.  It’d taken nearly half an hour to work the thing inside himself, its softly pointed tip widening far too quickly to its full girth. 

 

He was tied at the wrists and ankles on his back, and as he turned his head to look at Christopher, a stab of fear ran through him.  Also arousal, but mostly fear. 

 

Christopher looked…unhappy. 

 

Tom gulped. 

 

He leaned the crop against the side of the bed, and went to the bottom drawer of Tom’s chest, coming back with the metal ring gag, blessedly detached from the nipple clamps thank God.  Tom opened his mouth and lifted his head for Christopher as he secured it, then lay back down. 

 

Christopher looked absolutely terrifying. 

 

He picked up the crop with an easy motion, holding it straight up in front of himself, almost like a baton.  He stood off the right side of the bed and inspected Tom with a chilling coolness. 

 

He swung the crop down to lay against Tom’s cheek, controlling the motion so as not to hit with any force.  Then, he gave Tom’s face a light smack with the tongue, causing him to blink at the impact but cause very little pain. 

 

Next, he lay the rod of the crop across Tom’s nipples.  He let them rest a moment over the hardened nubs, then struck down on them with a swing sharp enough to hiss through the air.  There was a sting and an ache as it hit and Tom grunted, watching as a light line of pink sprang across his chest. 

 

His ribs were next, and that blow really hurt, catching the bones that stuck out in this prostrate position. 

 

A rest over the muscles of his stomach, and Tom fought to get control of his breathing.  His abdomen rose and fell shallowly with every breath, and the muscles twitched as though anticipating their punishment. 

 

_Hss, thwack!_

 

Tom cried out weakly through his gagged yet open mouth, his whole body stiffening from the strike.  His skin stung, but worse than that was the aching, bruising, sickening _wrong_ feeling that seemed to plunge deep underneath and clear through to his spine. 

 

Now, the rod was set at his hips, resting on the bones of his pelvis.  Tom whimpered, and then because that was not enough, shook his head feebly back and forth against the bed.

 

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no._

 

He knew no one was listening. 

 

_THWACK!_

 

He screamed and convulsed and against his bonds, throbbing pain erupting across his pelvis, a brutal sting burned along the soft skin of his lower belly.

 

He was still crying out, whining, pathetic cries, and pulling one way and then another on the bed, trying to escape this persistent, visceral pain, when Christopher groped his genitals.  He took them in one large, wide hand, and massaged through the barely existent barrier of nearly clear fabric.  He squeezed in pulsing rhythms utterly lacking in tenderness.  Tom might as well have been a mound of dough he was kneading, for all the care he took. 

 

Nonetheless, he did indeed begin to rise, Tom quipped to himself, rolling his eyes  closed despairingly even as he moaned in pain. 

 

By the time he was fully hard and straining at the sheer black fabric, he’d manage to regain some control, sniffling shakily and gasping through his gaping mouth.  He opened his eyes to find Christopher sitting on the bed, observing him like a butterfly pinned under glass, only meaner, his hand still working over Tom’s privates. 

 

He looked straight into Tom’s eyes, and tore the gauzy lace from his hips with a frightening _rip_.  Tom flinched as fabric snapped and slithered against his most intimate parts, leaving him utterly bared in it wake.  Christopher held the destroyed panties in his hand, casually swinging them from his fingers.  He threw them at Tom’s face with a flick of his wrist, and they landed just under his chin along his neck dangling over one shoulder. 

 

Tom started whimpering and he didn’t stop, as Christopher took his cock in two fingers and laid it, carefully, along his stomach. 

 

He stood up, riding crop in hand, and Tom squeezed his eyes shut and cried.  He choked sobbingly, tears running down his face, and helpless screams intermittently ripping from his throat. 

 

A long, thin shaft laid across his cock and he screamed out in short, emphatic, repeating bursts of panic.  His eyes were open now, but he couldn’t see anything, not even the ceiling, not even the dark. 

 

_Hss_

His whole body went silent.  He swore even his heart was still. 

 

Pain exploded. 

 

He didn’t even know if he was screaming or not, if he thrashed on the bed or strained at his bonds.  It was more than agony, more than torment or anguish.  It was obliteration, because for a second Tom wasn’t sure if he still existed, or if he’d just stopped, blinked out in a tidal wave of complete and total hurt. 

 

The initial throw of agony began to fade and Tom became aware of the ache caused by his controlled, extreme constriction of his muscles.  He tried to breathe and relax some of them, but it was hard to get his muscles obey.  The plug felt impossibly, monstrously, huge in his arse, clamped down as it was.  Slowly, he rose from the pain, each breath fading it a little more until it was down to a merely torturous ache. 

 

His vision returned just as slowly, blinking gradually into focus.  He felt both hot and cold, both stiff and utterly boneless.  He gazed down at his own body as though it was the first time he’d seen it. 

 

He cock appeared remarkably intact, was his first observation.  A dark plum, bruising stripe ran across the underside, just about halfway down the shaft.  He had lost his erection entirely, and appeared not to have come, which was relieving he supposed.  There were matching stripes in intervals along his body.  Following up his torso, each one was slightly lighter than the one before, up to the pale red mark across his upper chest. 

 

Tom breathed evenly.  The pain in his cock was making him squirm, almost as disquieting as it was actually hurtful.  He was just coming to himself enough to think about looking to see where Christopher was when a cock shoved between his lips and into his throat.

 

Christopher fucked his face callously, and it was clear he was to be used as nothing more than a hole.  Hands gripping his hair held him in position un-movingly, and knees dug into his shoulders as though they were a footstool.  He continued thrusting as he came, and even when he softened, sticking his cock down Tom’s throat clearly just because he could. 

 

He pulled off and took a hold of Tom’s hair with his left hand in a new unforgiving grip.  He tilted Tom head off the bed, and his face up.  He stared down at him with a strangely hard expression on his face, and then his right hand reached for the riding crop and placed its leather tongue on the flat of Tom’s own inside his mouth.  Then he pressed in. 

 

He slid the crop to the back Tom’s mouth, and then down his throat.  Tom felt the hard bloom of panic in his chest, and he tried to keep calm. 

 

_It’s not thicker than a cock_ , he reassured himself, heart thumping.  _You won’t choke_.  He focused on opening his esophagus, trying to swallow the hard, thin pole and leather just like any other deep throat blowjob. 

 

Tears streamed out his eyes. 

 

Christopher didn’t stay at this long, mercifully, and was soon pulling the crop back out.  Tom felt the leather tongue release from his throat with a slight cough, sagging with relief when it left the border of his mouth.   

 

Christopher dropped the dampened crop on the floor, and moved around to sit between Tom’s legs.  He spared tom not a glance, reached behind his balls for the base of the plug. 

 

He tugged, and Tom winced.  This was not a good position, flat on his back like this.  He legs were spread, but not in a way that opened his anus and allowed for easy insertion or removal. 

 

Christopher didn’t care, and decided to simply pull harder.

 

Tom’s brow creased distressedly as his sphincter stretched around the plug, cramped and uncomfortable.  Finally, it slid out with a soft _pop_ , and Tom’s anus flared with relief. 

 

Then the plug was at his mouth, and relief evaporated.  Christopher didn’t make him take it all, but he shoved the plump glob of rubber as far as it would go inside the metal ring, like a stopper. 

 

Tom was too troubled adjusting to this strangeness, his body still throbbing from his beating, that he didn’t quite notice at first that Christopher had left the room.  He blinked, wondering where he’d gone, and worrying what he would bring back with him.

 

This worry eventually began to fade, and a new one replaced it, as the minutes stretched on and he didn’t return. 

 

He turned his head to look at the clock, tugging at his restraints.  Digital numbers blinked at him, reading 6:21 P.M. 

 

An hour passed. 

 

Then another.

 

Worry swelled into full-blown fear as a third hour passed.  His chest heaved and he forced himself to breathe and stay calm because panic—the real, unbridled panic that was currently threatening to erupt from beneath his ribs—could cause him serious damage.  He clenched his right fist and made himself not pull at his restraints yet again, his wrists already sore from biting lesions.  His muscles were cramping and he was desperately thirsty.  He sucked pathetically at the plug sticking into his mouth, trying to produce any kind of moisture or saliva.  

 

A fourth hour, and his bladder became a serious problem.  He clenched, fighting the urge to release, and whimpered.  Tears fell from his eyes from sheer frustration, and then continued in full-blown weeping from despair. 

 

Five hours. 

 

The clock ticked passed midnight, and Tom thought he would burst.  He no longer cared about his aching wrists and ankles or his sore muscles or his thirst or the gag straining his lips or even the startled pain that still reverberated down his chest to his cock lying flat against his stomach. 

 

He glanced at the clock again and saw it was approaching twenty past.  Nearly six hours. 

 

He groaned or whimpered or _something_ and squirmed piteously on the bed.  He closed his eyes tight, and breathed. 

 

_Don’t look.  Don’t look.  Don’t.  Look._

 

His eyelids blinked and he saw the clock flip over to twenty-one past twelve. 

 

His eyes squeezed shut, face contorting, and then urine began to stream from his aching cock.  At first, it felt so good he didn’t even care that he was drenching himself in his own piss.  The warm liquid poured over his abdomen and hips and leaked between his legs down to the sheets underneath him.  It seemed to go on forever, but eventually there were shallow spurts from the tip of his cock, and then only intermittent trickling. 

 

He was soaked.  The smell assaulted him, and because of the plug blocking his mouth, he was forced to breathe through his nose. He fought to keep from gagging, not wanting to add vomit to this catastrophe.  He was sticky, and his sheets clung to him wetly.  Urine pooled in places, like under his arse and in the crook of his hip.

 

Eventually, he seemed to adjust.  He _adjusted_ to lying in his own waste.  No longer fought his bonds or worried or, in fact, thought at all.  He just lay there dejectedly, staring vacantly and occasionally blinking.  He didn’t look at the clock anymore.

 

Sometime later, he pissed again, though much less than the first time.  He didn’t flinch.  He didn’t even move. 

 

When Christopher returned, there was a moment when Tom wasn’t sure he cared. 

 

Careful hands pulled at the plug, and the unfastened the gag, setting them aside on the night table.  Tom closed his mouth, and looked up Christopher towering over him. 

 

_Why,_ he wanted to ask, pitifully.  _Why did you do this?_

Christopher looked down with, his expression wholly unreadable.  Then he leaned down, and kissed Tom, lightly, on the lips.  He gazed into Tom’s eyes, peering through inscrutable pools of arctic sea. 

 

“Would anyone else ever want a filthy whore like you?” he asked quietly, brushing a lock of hair from Tom’s face.  “Anyone else but me?”

 

Tom’s face crumpled, and he shook his head miserably.  “No,” he wailed softly, and dissolved into broken sobs. 

 

Christopher walked around the circumference of the bed, undoing the knots at Tom’s limbs one by one.  Then he left Tom there, in the middle of his soiled bed.  He was still sobbing.       

 


	18. In which Chris breaks his promise (which, let's be honest, we all knew was gonna happen eventually)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oral rape. Tom cries some more. Also, cookies!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra rape warnings for this one. It's kinda a short one, but still, not pleasant, especially emotionally.

 

 

Tom marked over the papers on his desk, chewing dully on his sandwich, when there was a sharp rap on the door. 

 

“Knock, knock,” Evans said glibly, peeking in at him from around the classroom door.  He had a half chewed apple in one hand and a plastic bag in the other, which he lifted with a little shake.  “I bring peanut butter cookies.  You want one?”

 

“Um,” Tom blinked, and shook his head.  “No thank you.”

 

“Ok,” said Evans easily.  “But they’re pretty good.”  He stepped in, letting the door fall shut behind him.  “You always eat lunch in here?” he asked, wandering into the classroom with a sharp bite to the apple.  Tom sat up straight, blinking as his mouth worked, dumbfounded. “You know, I can see the appeal,” Chris said after a moment, gaze sliding over his surroundings.  He leaned against a desk in the front row, nodding vaguely to himself.  “It’s quiet.  Gets you away from all the lunchroom/hallway craziness.” 

 

“Ah—“ Tom stammered.  “I…yes, I…I like the peace and quiet.  Gives me a chance to get some work done.” Tom replied, pointedly, but not harsh. 

 

Chris sort of froze, eyes dropping.  “…Sorry,” he said pushing off the desk, chastised.  “I…just barged in here—“

 

“No, no, its fine,” Tom assured him.  “I just…really have a lot of work.”

 

“Right,” Chris said nodding, and walked to the door.  “Sure you don’t want a cookie?” he asked again, raising the little plastic bag above his shoulders. 

 

“Yes,” Tom said quietly, a soft smile on his lips.  “Thank you.” 

 

The door opened from the outside, and Christopher looked in.  Tom heart thudded.

 

“Hey, Professor, can I talk to you for a minute?” Christopher asked, slinging his book bag higher on his shoulder. 

 

“I’ll go,” Evans mouthed exaggeratedly, pointing over Christopher’s shoulder.  Then, with a slight wave, he was gone.

 

The door closed behind him.  Christopher locked it. 

 

“Get up,” he said gruffly, dropping his bag to the floor. 

 

Tom stared, eyes wide and fearful.  “It’s lunch,” he whispered desperately.  “It’s the middle of the day, we can’t—“

 

“Get.  Up.”  Christopher stalked toward him. 

 

Tom scrambled out of the chair, walking backwards warily away from Christopher.

 

“Please,” he said, raising a hand placating. 

 

Christopher just pushed him, jerking him to the back of the classroom, away from the rooms few small windows.  He shoved him up against the tall cabinets at the back wall, trapping him between two arms as he braced his palms against the surface.  He glared at Tom, their faces inches apart. 

 

“Suck my cock.” He ordered, each word articulated. 

 

“Please,” Tom begged.  “Please, you _promised_ , you—“

 

“Shut up, whore,” Christopher cut him off, and Tom’s mouth snapped shut.  “Suck me.”  His head tilted, eyes turning slightly amused.  “Better hurry, Professor.” 

 

Tom glanced at the clock. 

 

Fifteen minutes.

 

He sank to his knees. 

 

Christopher didn’t move, just stayed as he was, smirking down at him as he opened his jeans and pulled him out.  Tom put him mouth on him and worked furiously.  He took him down quickly, a hand cupping his balls as he sucked with all his might.  He needed Christopher to come, needed him to finish before—

 

He clenched his eyes tight and focused on his task.  Christopher stayed utterly motionless, making him do all the work, bobbing frantically over Christopher’s erection.  Finally, he felt Christopher’s bollocks begin to tighten and braced himself for the flow of cum into his mouth. 

 

Suddenly, though, Christopher was pulling from between his lips.  Tom tried to follow, chasing the retreating cock with his mouth, but Christopher put a fist in his hair and slammed back against the cabinet door with a rattling bang.  Tom whimpered, his mouth working unconsciously, trying vainly to pull the stiff member back inside. 

 

Christopher was looking down on him, a dark look on his face.  His other hand still pressed into the door of the cabinet, and he his cock bobbed wetly in front of Tom’s face. 

 

“Should I come in your face, whore?” he growled lowly.

 

“No!” Tom cried, too desperate to try and soften his plea.  “No, please, please,” his lips begged, bending and shaking with bitten back tears.  “Please, let me swallow it,” he implored, his voice breaking with a sob. 

 

“You that much of a cum-slut?” Christopher mocked cruelly.  “You that thirsty for my cum, you greedy cum-bag slut?” 

 

“Yes,” Tom wailed, trying to nod despite the tight hold on his hair.  “Yes, please.”  Tears and snot ran down his face. 

 

Christopher leaned in closer, eyeing him with vicious, dangerous orbs of blue. 

 

“You’d do anything to drink my cum, wouldn’t you, faggot?” He ground out, low and nasty. 

 

“Yes!” Tom agreed, sobbing openly now.  _“Please!”_  

 

Christopher shoved his hips forward and Tom took him, gulping him down over shaking tears.  Cum flooded his throat and he closed his eyes in desperate gratitude as he swallowed, and swallowed, and swallowed, taking it all. 

 

The spent cock slipped from his lips, and Christopher let go of his hair.  His head fell limply to his chest, his ears full of his own hopeless sniffling.

 

“See you in class, Professor,” Christopher lilted, and left him, picking up his bag and closing the door behind him. 

 

Tom lay there, collapsed on his knees at the back of the room.  He needed to get up, but all he could do was bring his shaking hands to his face.  _Get up_ , he wailed at himself.  _You have to get up._

 

Taking a deep breath, and roused himself.  He rose unsteadily, and then practically stumbled to his desk.  He didn’t have much time, his next class would be arriving soon.  He grabbed handfuls of tissues and rubbed them over his face, trying to get the worst of it.  Then he stuffed them in his pocket, and flew out the door, head down.  He’d go to the washroom, rinse his face, get himself in order.  Tears still threatened behind his eyes, and he didn’t even really have the composure to fight them.  He just had to outrun them, get to a stall where he could hide. 

 

“Excuse me,” he said quickly as he bumped into a shoulder. 

 

“Hey, no problem,” said Chris as Tom brushed past.  “Hey, are you al—“ he called after, turning.  “…right?” 

 

Tom hurried on, pretending not to hear.

 


	19. In which Tom almost makes a friend and Chris doesn't like that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealousy is so much worse when you're FUCKING INSANE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, warnings: HEAVY abusive relationship stuff, what is essentially rape, strangulation (I'd say breathplay....but it's really more like strangulation), also some mental imbalance aspects. There's also a gag used, some riding crop action, a bit of CBT, and of course, more of the usual non-con BDSM craziness.
> 
> This is a pretty long one, so hopefully that'll make up for my lack of updates the past few days. Yeah, so, Happy Christmas you guys! Here's some darkness and sadness and a very nice person being driven to near insanity!

 

 

“Hey!”  Evans jogged up to him on his way to the parking lot, falling in to step beside him. “You ok?  You looked a little, um…” he gestured vaguely “…earlier.” 

 

“Oh, that,” Tom said quickly, pretending not to realize for a moment.  “I…managed to inhale some sort dust from the back cabinets.  I’m fine.”

 

“Ok,” Chris said carefully, not sounding convinced.  “Um, so, anyway, I actually wanted to ask you…I mean, I’m new here, and I was kind of hoping you could show me around?  The town, I mean, not just the school.  I know where the teacher’s lounge is now,” he said we a rueful laugh.   

 

“I…” Tom slowed slightly.  “I’m probably not the best person to ask.  I don’t really go out much.”

 

“Well, maybe we can figure things out together, then,” Chris said easily. 

 

“Look,” Tom started, stopping in front of his car.  “I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t there someone else you could be…” he searched for words.  “…Talking to?” 

 

Chris cast his eyes downwards, then looked back up, gazing at nothing over Tom’s shoulder.  “I mean…” he began, with a slight whine, his eyes meandering over the open air.  “Ok,” he said after a second.  “I’ll be honest.  Everyone here is great.  The faculty has been really, just, fantastic, but—“ he paused, sighing.  “Well, everyone else has to be a good, what, ten, twenty years older?  Except for you.  I mean, you have noticed right?” he asked, lowering his voice jokingly.  “So, yeah, I was kind of…trying to make friends.  I’m sorry if I…look, I know I can come off kind of, um… _strange_ ,” he emphasized with a self-deprecating laugh, “…sometimes, but…and I get it,” he rushed on.  “If you’re not…interested.  In.  That.  Like, I won’t be offended or anything, I just…” 

 

He trailed off, peering up at Tom with a slightly grimacing smile.  Tom looked at, mouth open slightly.  He didn’t quite know what to say. 

 

“That’s…” Tom stopped, swallowing a bit, his eyes glancing downward.  “You’re not…strange,” he said after a moment.  “I mean,” he went on with a slight smile.  “It’s not…” he took a breath.  “I just…don’t think I’d make a very good friend.  To anyone.”  The last word trailed to almost nothing. 

 

“I don’t believe that for a second,” was Chris’s immediate incredulous response, and Tom laughed. 

 

“Oh, because of the…two and half conversations you’ve had with me?” He snorted. 

 

“Because of what your students say about you,” Chris countered.  Tom looked up, blinking.  “The…ones on my team, anyway,” he went on, shuffling.  “A bunch of soccer jocks getting psyched because they ‘get to read Othello’?” he shot Tom a look.  “Kinda gets your attention.” 

 

Tom dropped his eyes again, something strange and unfamiliar swirling in his chest. 

 

“Look,” Christopher went on, his voice softening.  “Just think about it.  I could use a friend here,” he said with a wry tilt to his head.  “And,” he continued, tentative.  “It sort of seems like…maybe you could, too?”

 

Tom’s throat was tight, so after a moment he just nodded softly, eyes down.  Chris gave him a another small smile, and walked off. 

 

Tom just stood there a second, then got in his car and drove home. 

 

 

 

 

 

Tom was drinking a glass of water in front of the kitchen sink, having just arrived home, when he noticed Christopher glowering in the doorway of the kitchen. 

 

He lowered the glass from his lips. 

 

“It’s almost four o’clock,” Christopher said darkly. 

 

“Sorry,” Tom answered, confusion and fear mixing inside him.  “I…I was just running a little late.” 

 

“I know what you were doing,” said Christopher tightly.  Tom’s browed creased.  Christopher stalked across the room and glared at Tom. 

 

Tom blinked.  “I…what—” 

 

Christopher slammed the glass out of Tom’s hand, sending it careening into the wall with a smash.  Tom jumped, watching it crash, his heart suddenly beating very fast.   

 

“I saw you,” Christopher growled.  “Saw you with _him_.”

 

“Wh-wh-what?”  Tom stammered. 

 

“I saw you,” he repeated tightly.  “In the parking lot.” 

 

Tom’s mind raced, eyes tracking furiously over nothing, before he realized. 

 

“We…we were just talking,” he said, hushed. 

 

“You think I’m stupid?”  Christopher backed Tom against the sink, gripping his wrists tightly against the counter.  “You think I haven’t seen him with you?  _Sniffing_ around you?”

 

“He’s friendly,” Tom explained helplessly, almost laughing at the absurdity. “He’s…American!”  He swallowed.  “Look, Chris is just—“

 

Christopher’s fists tightened, vice-like. 

 

“ _Chris?_ ”  Christopher snarled in his face, enraged.  Tom’s back crushed into the counter of the sink as he let out a soft cry.  His eyes locked on Christopher’s, chest heaving. 

 

“H-He,” Tom stammered, gasping.  “That…that’s what he likes to be called, he’s very informal.” 

 

Christopher’s grip was rigid and unwavering. His eyes burned, the set of his jaw hard and unyielding.  He said nothing and he looked like murder.

 

Tom’s fingers shook, trembling from the painful grasp.  He searched Christopher’s face, trying to find something, something he could do.  He licked his lips nervously.

 

“Did—” he hesitated.  “W…would you like me…to call you Chris?”  Tom spoke carefully, staring at Christopher with abject attention.  He hadn’t really been calling him anything; there was really remarkably little need to address him. 

 

Slowly, minuscule, Christopher’s eyes softened.  Tom flicked his eyes down, and when he raised them again, they were inviting, fluttering shyly up at Christopher.  He leaned in.    

 

“Chris,” he said quietly, soothingly.  He brushed their lips together, ever so lightly. “Chris, please.  There could never be anyone else.  You know that.”  He nuzzled at Christopher’s lips with his own, his mouth loose and supple, his eyes cast down modestly.  “I need you,” he breathed against Christopher’s mouth.  He glanced up checking his face.  Christopher looked more relaxed, but there was still a hard line to his mouth, so Tom kissed him, softly as a feather.  “I’m your whore, Chris,” he said with certainty.  “No on could take care of me like you do.”  Finally, Christopher’s expression loosened, and he kissed Tom with a hum.  His hands still gripped Tom’s wrists though, their punishing hold unchanged.  Tom swallowed, and laid his cheek against Christopher’s.  “Fuck me, Chris,” Tom murmured into his ear.  “I need you, please.  Fuck me.”

 

A soft growl from the back of his throat, and Christopher spun him around, bending him at the waist over he sink.  Tom’s hands shook with relief as they were released from the vice of Christopher’s hands, but he had not time to attend to them.  Christopher yanked brutishly at Tom’s trousers and Tom frantically undid them with stiff fingers before they could tear.  Trousers and pants were pulled around his ankles and then a knee was between his legs, pushing his thighs apart.  He widened his stance as much as he could and bent forward, trying to brace himself on the edge of the sink with his elbows.

 

Immediately, a thick hardness prodded at his entrance.  Christopher shoved against him, utterly unprepared, and Tom winced as the tip of his erection maneuvered gratingly inside.  He shoved in again, making Tom grunt, before pulling out, irritated, and forcing three fingers into the clenched opening. 

 

Tom’s face  contorted, gasping.  He tried to relax his muscles, to open to the invasion.  Soon, Christopher’s fingers were replaced again with his cock, and he rammed Tom hard, hands spreading his cheeks determinedly.  It didn’t go easy, and it couldn’t have been comfortable for Christopher either, but he was relentless, forcing inside with short, brutal thrusts.  Finally, Christopher’s patience seemed to give out, and he took hold of Tom’s collar, pulling him back onto his cock as he slammed his hips forward.  Tom grunted and gasped with the rough slide against his insides, teeth clenching and eyes squeezing shut as Christopher crammed his way in. 

 

Now fully sheathed, Christopher barely paused before pulling back and fucking back into him ruthlessly.  He kept a tight hold on Tom’s collar, using it as leverage while Tom breathed through the pain.  His passage gradually grew slick with what Tom knew was blood. 

 

Then Christopher took hold of the front of his tie, twisting the knot round the back of his neck.  He pulled tight, wrapping his fist around the hanging fabric.  Tom had only a second to gasp desperately before the knot around his neck tightened.  He scrabbled at the sink, arms and legs flailing as he was choked from behind.  Christopher just continued his thrusting, tearing him open as he fucked.  His other hand gripped Tom’s hip as he pulled on the tie like the reins on a horse, fucking in and in and in.  Tom’s knees started to buckle as spots swam in front of his eyes.  His hands went to his throat in a futile attempt to claw the fabric from where it dug into his skin.  _I’m going to die_ , he thought, lungs burning.  His mouth hung open, trying despite the impossibility to bring in air as he felt the cold tendrils of unconsciousness seep at his periphery.  

 

Christopher came inside him with a low growl.  Cum filled him, the hot issue burning his roughened flesh.  A heartbeat, and Christopher released him, pulling out, and letting go of his strangling hold in one swift motion.  Tom fell the floor, wheezing desperately as oxygen surged into him.  He stayed on his hands and knees, shoulders shaking as he coughed uncontrollably.  As he calmed, his right hand raised tremblingly to his throat. 

 

Gradually, he became aware of Christopher standing over him, his cock hanging in the corner of his eye, coated in red.  He turned his eyes up slowly, and swallowed, the reflex painful in his damaged throat. 

 

Christopher’s cheeks were flushed as he looked down at Tom inscrutably.  He lifted a hand and cupped Tom’s cheek, his palm warm and comforting.  Then he leaned down, and kissed him. 

 

“Go put on your gag,” he said gently, and left the kitchen with long, even strides, not bothering to do up his trousers.    

 

 

 

Tom found him in the living room when he returned. He stood awkwardly, gagged and naked, as Christopher sat placidly on the couch. He’d stripped, and sat confidently in naked glory, knees spread.  He waved Tom over with an easy hand, and then gestured him into his lap.  Tom straddled him, sitting up on his knees and placing light hands on Christopher’s shoulders. 

 

Christopher studied him, eyes unreadable.  Then, he drew him down for a kiss.  With the gag, this mostly consisted of pressing his mouth over Tom’s and sticking his tongue down his throat.  Then, he reached around and gripped the crack of Tom’s arse, flat fingers pressing against his wrecked hole.  He pulled back slightly, staring into Tom’s eyes.

 

“My cunt,” he said clearly, and stuck three fingers inside the ravaged passage.  He pulled them out, and brought the sticky digits to Tom’s mouth.  He held Tom by the hair and shoved the fingers deep inside.  Tom fought not to gag as they pressed against the back of his throat, the taste of bitter salt and copper filling him up.  “My mouth.”  He pulled them out, leaving behind a long string of saliva, and wrapped his fist around Tom’s limp penis.  “My cock,” he said, rubbing his thumb roughly over the head.  He pressed his thumbnail into the slit and Tom jerked.  Christopher just wrapped his other arm around Tom’s hips and held him in place, pressing harder and harder with his thumb. 

 

“You’re my whore,” he went on, glittering eyes focused on Tom’s face.  “I can do whatever I want with you.” 

 

Icy coldness washed over Tom.  He’d thought he’d grown used to being afraid, that there couldn’t be any more depths to his terror, but those words cut through him like a knife.

 

“Can’t I?” Christopher prompted.  He took Tom by the hair, gripping him tight enough to break the roots.  “ _Can’t I?”_

 

Tom couldn’t move his head to nod and his mouth was spread open uselessly around the gag, so he just stared at Christopher with wide, fearful eyes.  Finally, with a grunt of disgust, Christopher undid the gag and ripped it from his lips, throwing it to the cushions beside him. 

 

“Say it,” he commanded. 

 

Tom worked to catch his breath, swallowing around his dry, sore throat.  He looked at Christopher, and it was like a vice tightened around his ribs.

 

“Y-y-you,” he forced.  “…C-c-can do…wh-whatever…you w-want.  W-w-with me.”  His eyes stung. 

 

Christopher glared at him.  “Again.” 

 

Tom blinked, shoving back tears and swallowing.  He tried again.  “Y-you can do…w-whatever you want…w-with me.”  He gasped hard at the end, holding his breath to keep back a sob. 

 

Christopher just stared, eyes narrowing.  Tom bowed his head, lips quivering.  This wasn’t working.  He couldn’t give him what he wanted.    

 

Then, as if in answer to his need, there came a voice, rising up from inside him. 

 

_Of course you can.  You’re nothing.  It doesn’t matter what he does to you, you worthless nobody._

He breathed deep, calming himself. 

 

_You deserve everything you get from him.  You know that._

 

Warmth blossomed in him and he raised his eyes, locking them with Christopher’s.  He wrapped his arms behind Christopher’s neck, cradling the back of his head in one hand.  He took a deep, sensual breath, in through his nose, and gazed at Christopher with veneration.    

 

“You can do anything you want with me,” he promised, voice hoarse, but perfectly clear.  “I’m your whore, and everything I am, belongs to you.  My cocksucking mouth.  My whore arse.  My cunt hole.  My faggot cock.  All yours.  To use.  However.  You. Want.”  He leaned in, and planted worshipful kiss on Christopher’s lips. 

 

Christopher regarded him, a pleased smile quirking at the corners of his mouth.  He sighed deeply, and placed contented hands at Tom’s hips. 

 

“Spank your arse,” he ordered lazily.  Promptly, Tom raised his right hand and brought a firm _smack_ down across his rump.  Christopher’s hands moved to his backside, spreading his cheeks wide with bruising fingers.  “Spank your hole.”  Tom didn’t hesitate; he struck his battered entrance firmly, letting out only a grunt at the hurtful impact.  Christopher then eased him back, letting him sit firmly into his hands.  “Spank your cock.” 

 

Tom looked down at his stiff member, flush and full with arousal, and frowned.  With real hatred and contempt, he slapped across the bobbing erection, sending it swinging.  He threw his head back and let out a satisfied, snarling shout as the pain hit him. 

 

Christopher brought him down over his own cock, standing up proud and hard again from his lap, rubbing the head over Tom’s opening.  Tom moaned at every aching brush. 

 

“Pinch your nipples,” Christopher told him.  “Twist them.” 

 

Tom obeyed, gasping as pain and arousal mingling like two candle flames placed too close together. 

 

“Touch yourself.  Not your cock, but touch yourself.  Show me what a slut you are.” 

 

Tom ran his hands over his chest, down to his stomach, his head tilted back as he hummed and groaned contentedly.  His eyes fell closed as he groped himself.  He scratched over his belly and clenched his fist over the muscle of his peck.  Then he ran tingling fingers up his abused throat and fondled, teasingly, over his lips.  He stuck them in his mouth and, turning his head for Christopher to see his profile, fucked them between his lips, lewdly sucking in his cheeks. At the same time, he swirled his bleeding hole around the tip of Christopher’s cock, moaning crudely with every shift of his hips. 

 

Christopher pulled down and Tom went easily, sinking onto his waiting cock with an agonized, lustful grunt.  He rotated his hips around Christopher’s hardness.  Christopher groaned, and Tom peered at him from under hooded eyes. 

 

“Are you enjoying your cunt?” he asked, slipping wet fingers from his lips and clenching Christopher’s cock with his wounded arse.  Christopher groaned louder.  “You like fucking your bleeding cunt?  Your whore’s bleeding cunt?”  Christopher continued to moan, falling back against the couch as his eyes closed and head tilted back.  Tom leaned forward, bracing against his shoulders, an started pumping up and down on the hot, pulsing shaft inside him.  “That feel good?” he rasped, viciously.  “You like that?”  He slammed down harder with every word.  “Is your whore doing a _good job_ fucking himself on your cock?  Is his hole the way you like it?  Is it taking your cock _well?_  Is it tight enough, loose enough, slick enough, dry enough, _hurting_ enough to _please_ you?” 

 

He cut off, his face rigidly not allowing tears to fall.  He didn’t even understand what he was saying.  He felt crazed, like half of him didn’t know what the other half was doing, inky feelings churning inside him, dark and unrecognizable.

 

Tom ducked his head and focused on his task.  His erection still bobbed between them, but he couldn’t build his arousal to anything more.  Christopher spilled inside him, heated and painful.  He pushed Tom to the floor and had him lick his cock clean, then brought him to his feet.  He spread Tom’s feet wide, as wide as they would go, and then ordered him to hold open his arse.  Tom obediently parted his cheeks with his hands, and stared straight ahead, almost unblinking.

 

Christopher left him there, anus exposed, walking upstairs without a backward glance.  Tom stood uncomfortably, feeling blood and cum inch their ways down his arse and thighs. 

 

He didn’t have wait too long, just long enough for his knees to start shaking.  Christopher returned with the riding crop and, standing behind him, instructed Tom to lean forward over the couch.  Tom braced himself against the back and bowed his head, legs spread wide.  He could see his cock was still hard, jutting out from pelvis. 

 

Christopher placed the leather tongue of the crop on Tom’s balls, hanging between his thighs, and then hit them with rapid, repeating slaps until he lost his erection. 

 

He stood Tom up and handed him the crop, handle first.  Tom took it, unblinking. 

 

“Twelve lashes before you go to bed,” he said mildly, running a hand across Tom’s backside.  Tom nodded.  Christopher took Tom’s chin between his fingers, tilting his head up.  “What do good whores say?” he prompted, lilting. 

 

“Thank you, Chris,” Tom answered hoarsely.  “For taking such good care of your whore.” 

 

Christopher shifted his hand, grabbing Tom’s jaw in a wide, crushing grip. 

 

“ _My_ whore,” he growled, and kissed him on the mouth. 

 

 


	20. In which it all goes belly up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chris-es are suspicious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warnings on this one. I guess they could be considered "spoilers", for those who may care about such things, so if you want to stay a bit in the dark just please take the RAPE warning seriously. Also, abusive relationship (duh) and mild suicidal thoughts.
> 
> We're gearing up to the finale here, people. Rock fucking bottom. 
> 
> Now for the "spoilery" bits: kidnapping, slut shaming, forced feminization, and gang rape.

 

 

Tom forced himself to clean himself out and apply disinfectant.  He was loath to do it, not because it was going to hurt, but simply because he couldn’t seem to dredge up the energy to care all that much. 

 

The next morning, his throat was sore and dark purple marks had formed around his wrists.  He stood in the washroom after he’d showered, staring blankly into the mirror.  There was a dark ring, nearly black, running across the lower part of his neck.  He lifted his chin, inspecting it with a detached curiosity. 

 

 _He could have killed you_ , he thought to himself. 

 

He raised a hand and ran a single fingernail along the bruise at his throat. 

 

_Maybe that would have been better.  Then you wouldn’t be here now._

 

Tom sighed softly.  He didn’t want to die, not really.  And dy _ing_ appeared a deeply unpleasant prospect.  But…to already _be_ dead…to just be…gone—

 

He sighed again.  There could be worse things.

 

He dressed quietly, smoothly mechanical.  He only hesitated when he reached for a tie, swallowing thickly as he looped it about his neck.  Carefully, he pulled the knot neat at the base of his throat.  Then he checked himself in the mirror. 

 

His eyes darkened, and he sighed, grumbling.  There was a bit of bruising, just visible above his collar—not much, but enough. 

 

He whipped off the tie, and his shirt, and jerked open his drawers looking for the one turtleneck he was fairly sure he owned.  He found it in the back of his third drawer, and yanked it over his head.  He tucked it into his trousers, shrugged on his jacket, and checked again. The sleeves kept bunching up under the jacket, and he pulled at them irritably.  It would have to do.  At least the bruising was covered now.

 

The day was uneventful until he was making his way to the parking lot.

 

“Tom!” 

 

He pretended not to hear and tried to quicken his pace a little.  Chris caught up to him just as he’d opened the door to his car. 

 

“Hey!” Chris exclaimed, breathless.  “So, I found this great little Vietnamese place downtown.  You wanna help me check it out?”  He was still gasping slightly between words. 

 

“I…” Tom forced himself not to glance around fretfully.  If Christopher was watching, it wasn’t as though there was anything he could do about it.  “I really can’t.”

 

“Hey, I can work around your schedule, don’t worry about it.  Just, name a time.”  He smiled. 

 

“Ch-Chris,” he stumbled over the name.  “I just…I’m really not much for going out.” 

 

“Well, maybe we could stay in then,” Chris said easily.  “Order in, watch a movie.  I haven’t seen _Inception_ yet,” he offered with self-deprecating helpfulness. 

 

“I don’t know,” Tom murmured, throat sore. 

 

“Or maybe—“ Chris started again. 

 

“Chris just stop!”  Chris fell silent, and so did Tom, somewhat startled at his own harshness. 

 

“Sorry,” Chris began softly after a moment.  “I thought…”  Tom looked down and away.  He just couldn’t…  “I’ll leave you alone.  Sorry to…”  he trailed off.  Tom looked up, and saw him gazing somewhat downward with a frown.  “What happened to your wrist?” 

 

Tom looked sharply at the hand still rested on the car door and saw that the sleeve had run up.  He jerked it down to his side, pulling on the cuff with his other hand.  “Nothing,” he said quickly. 

 

Chris’s frown settled into his face.  _Mistake_ , Tom thought to himself.  _Wrong reaction._  

 

“Tom,” Chris started carefully.  “Is everything alright?” 

 

“Of course,” Tom said quickly.  _Too quickly_ , his brain screamed at him, trying to catch up to his panic. 

 

“Tom,” Chris said again, clearly unconvinced.  “What—“ he broke off, his eyes lowering slightly from Tom’s face.  “You never wear turtlenecks,” he muttered, almost to himself. 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tom snapped under his breath. 

 

Chris’s eyes popped up and locked on Tom’s.  “I’ve been here four weeks, and every day you wear a suit with a button down shirt and tie.  Every.  Day.  And your voice, you sound…”  His brow furrowed. 

 

“Just a bit of sore throat that’s all.  Wore this cause it’s warmer, didn’t want to come down with something.”  He sounded mechanical, even to himself.  _Lie better_. 

 

Chris regarded him a moment.  “Show me your neck.”

 

“What?” Tom exclaimed, incredulous. 

 

“Just…show me nothing’s wrong.  Show me I’m crazy, that I’m reading too much into this.  Please.”  He spoke calmly, but he didn’t sound ready to back down.  Tom swallowed. 

 

“Look,” he said after a minute.  “It’s not…it’s not what you think.”

 

“And what do I think?” Chris said promptly, leading.  Tom paused, but then went on, ignoring the question. 

 

“It’s…it’s,” this time he did glance around, lowering his voice even further.  _Just say it_.  “ _Consensual_.”  He sent a pointed look at Chris. 

 

Chris looked thoughtful for a moment, but then his eyes firmed.  “No.  No, I don’t buy it.  If that’s the case, then why are you acting like this?” 

 

“Well, I’m embarrassed, obviously,” Tom said, forcing a laugh. 

 

“You’re terrified.” 

 

Tom went quiet, Chris’s flat, certain statement cutting through him more than he would have liked. 

 

“I have to go,” he said, and started to get into his car.  

 

“Listen, Tom,” Chris said urgently, stepping forward and putting his hand on the car door.  “If you’re worried about somebody, if someone’s hurting you, you don’t have to—“

 

“Please let go,” he said quietly, pulling lightly at the car door. 

 

“—You don’t have to deal with it alone.  You can—“

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom said flatly.  “Now, let go, and leave me alone.” 

 

He yanked the door shut with a sharp _slam_.  Chris was standing outside, watching him with a pained expression.  Tom locked the doors, and started the car. 

 

Chris walked away after a moment, and Tom let out a sigh of relief.  He pulled out, and drove home.

 

It was only when he’d parked in front of his house that he noticed a vaguely familiar car following behind.  It parked across the street, and Chris got out.

 

Tom felt a stab of rage, and he exited his car with sharp, furious motions.  His hands were shaking. 

 

Chris was walking toward him as he stood on the sidewalk.

 

“Tom,” Chris started softly.

 

“Are you _insane_?” Tom hissed angrily, cutting him off. 

 

“I just needed to make sure you were alright,” Chris said, infuriatingly composed. 

 

“ _You—_ “ Tom cut off, suddenly noticing they were outside where anyone could see.  “Come inside,” he said quietly.

 

They walked to his door and unlocked it, waving Chris in before following after. 

 

He slammed the door.  “Now, _GET OUT!_ ”  He was surprised at the volume of his own voice, his vehemence overcoming the soreness in his throat.

 

“Tom,” Chris tried to break in, taking a step forward.

 

“You followed me to my _home?_ ” Tom continued, ignoring him.  “What the _hell_ is the matter with you?”

 

“I’m worried,” Chris said simply.

 

“You’re a _stalker_!” said Tom.  “For weeks, you’ve been following me around, sn- _sniffing_ around me like a bloody puppy who can’t take a bloody hint!” 

 

Chris stepped back.  His eyes dropped, hands rising in front of him, placating. 

 

“Ok.  Ok.”  Like to a wounded animal.  “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I didn’t realize…of course, I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want.  But I can’t...” he looked up, warily, begging understanding.  “I can’t do that if I’m not sure you’re safe.  I couldn’t—“ he broke off, glancing to the side. 

 

Tom kept trying to think of something to say, but he was just so _angry_.  All he could really hear was his own heartbeat in his ears. 

 

“Look,” Chris went on, quietly.  “I’ll just crash on your couch tonight—“

 

“You’ll _WHAT?_ ” Tom demanded, finding his voice at last. 

 

“I just— I need t— “ Chris took a breath, finally showing some crack in all that cool, calm, concern.  “I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t know you’re okay.” 

 

There was a roaring in Tom’s ears. 

 

He pushed past Chris and went upstairs, throwing himself on his bed and burying his face in a pillow. 

 

He didn’t know how, but he was almost immediately asleep. 

 

 

 

He slept for ages, deeply, and if he had any dreams he couldn’t remember them.  He woke more than twelve hours later to the sound of his alarm. 

 

He blinked drearily and pushed up on his elbows, stiff in the clothes he’d worn the day before.  Mechanically, he washed and dressed.  The bruising around his neck had gone down some, so if he pulled up the collar on his dress shirt a bit, it was covered.  Mostly.

 

 _Hardly noticeable_ , he thought to himself, adjusting his tie in the mirror. 

 

Then he went downstairs. 

 

Chris was sitting, waiting, on the couch.  His elbows rested on his knees and he bowed over his clasped hands, rubbing them together.  When he heard Tom, he rose quickly, turning, his mouth opening to say something. 

 

Tom just went straight to the door, holding it open without a word.  There was a long moment, but Chris finally made his way out.  He paused in front of Tom as though he might say something, but Tom wouldn’t meet his gaze, and after a moment, he left.

 

Tom followed after him with a deep sigh, closing the door and locking it.  Chris was standing outside, as though waiting for him, but Tom went right past him and got in his car.  He drove off without bothering to see if Chris did the same. 

 

He passed the day in a fog, a strange, muted, apprehension settling in his stomach.  It wasn’t until the end of the day that that apprehension started to have a more pointed focus. 

 

Christopher wasn’t in class. 

 

“No, he didn’t go to any of his classes today,” said the secretary’s voice on the other line. 

 

“Is…is he sick?” Tom found himself asking.  “Did something happen?”

 

Some shuffling.  “There’s no call from his parents.  Looks like he just didn’t show up.” 

 

“Okay,” said Tom.  “Thanks.” He hung up. 

 

That knot in his stomach was growing, but he made his way towards the parking lot anyway, his grip tight on his briefcase.  His senses seemed deadened, his mind strangely numb. 

 

Abruptly, he was pulled backwards, a hand clasped over his mouth.  Spun around, he found himself in some sort of closet, dark and looking mostly unused.  It smelled of dust.  A hand still pressed over his mouth, another pinning him back against a cluttered wall.  Christopher was glaring at him, his eyes gleaming sharply. 

 

Tom’s heart pumped rapidly and he inhaled harshly behind Christopher’s hand.  Slowly, Christopher removed his hand.  Tom didn’t try to scream.

 

“It wasn’t…” Tom whispered fervidly.  “It’s not…he didn’t…nothing happened.”  Because he knew, he knew what this was.  “He…he followed me.  He’s crazy!  But…but nothing—“

 

“Shut.  Up.” 

 

Tom cut off, inhaling sharply.  Christopher leaned in close. 

 

“I knew.  I knew you were a whore, but I thought…” Christopher trailed off.  He sounded almost…hurt.

 

Tom was shaking his head.  “No, no I…he didn’t touch me, not—Chris, I _swear_ —“

 

The hand closed over his mouth again as Christopher glared out a warning.  Tom choked back a sob.  He couldn’t stop shaking.

 

Christopher turned his head to the side, eyes closed. He looked like he was listening, or counting.  Minutes ticked by to the sound of Tom’s pounding heart.  Then, Christopher’s eyes opened, and looked at Tom, hard and penetrating. 

 

“Come on,” he said, and pulled. 

 

He took him out, steering him by the elbow.  The halls were deserted.  He was led to the student parking lot, mostly empty. 

 

 _It’s a Friday,_ Tom thought hysterically. 

 

He was shoved toward a car, off in a corner by some overgrown bushes.  Christopher opened the back door. 

 

“Get in.” 

 

Tom fought not to hyperventilate.  He looked from the car, back up to the Christopher. 

 

“Chris,” he said, trying to pacify.  “Chris, please, I swear to you—“

 

Christopher took a step forward, and suddenly there was a knife at Tom’s throat. 

 

“Get.  In.  The car.”  There was nothing, no softness in him, his eyes as sharp and hard as the metal under his chin.  “Lie down on the floor, or I will put you in the boot, I swear to God.” 

 

Tom trembled, and backed into the car, folding himself down onto the floor.  The door slammed behind him, making him flinch.  Then Christopher climbed into the drivers seat, and they were moving. 

 

Tom couldn’t see well where they were going, but they drove for a long time.  The sun started to go down, the sky through the window growing darker and darker.  Finally, they stopped.  Tom heard the back door open. 

 

“Get out.” 

 

He slowly obeyed, stiff and disoriented.  When he stood outside the car, he looked around. 

 

Trees, mostly.  Bare, in the winter.  Something like a dirt road, somewhat muddy.  A building a ways off, like a warehouse maybe.

 

“Take off your clothes.” 

 

 _I’m going to die,_ he thought, already working the buttons of his shirt.  It was not a comforting thought, and new panic bloomed in his chest.  _Run_ , whispered a voice inside.  _Where?_ demanded another. 

 

Christopher stared at him until, piece by piece, he stood naked in the cold.  Then Christopher went to the boot of the car.  Could he…Tom looked over his shoulder…could he take the car?  Christopher had the keys.  He did not know how to hot-wire a car.  _See what all that ‘book_ _learning’s_ _bought you?_   He almost started laughing

 

Christopher was now returning, holding something in his hands.  _There goes your chance,_ he thought, surprisingly mildly.  _Oh, well._

 

Christopher threw something at his chest and Tom caught it reflexively, if awkwardly, clutching it to him.

 

“Put it on.” 

 

Tom looked down, and unfolded the rumpled fabric.  It was a dress; midnight blue in tight, stretchy fabric.  There were rectangular cutouts running in two rows down the back.  The neck was square-cut, wide and low, and the hem looked obscenely short. 

 

Trembling, he stepped into it.  It was hard to get it up over his hips, the fabric clinging tightly to every semblance of a curve, but he managed it.  He pulled the wide straps up over his shoulders, and tried to pull down on the hem.  The neck was low enough for his nipples to poke out and the skirt left him barely decent, but…

 

It fit.  Perfectly. 

 

“Now these.”  Christopher held out his hand, a pair of shoes hanging from two fingers. 

 

Tom took them, and stepped back to sit on the backseat, bending over to wriggle his feet into the unfamiliar straps.  They were gold, with a chain that clasped around each ankle, and tall, spindly heels. 

 

When he’d fastened them, he sat up, pulling again at the hem of his skirt.  Christopher was watching him with that same hard gaze, and then approached the car, lifting his hand. 

 

He popped the cap on a tube of lipstick, and twisted the bottom.  Even in the dim light, Tom could see bright, vibrant, red.  He gripped Tom by the chin in a crushing grip and applied the waxy substance over his lips.  When he was done, he put the tube away in his back pocket, and yanked Tom up.  Tom ducked his head to avoid hitting the top of the car, stumbling to find his feet in the grotesquely high heels. 

 

Christopher held him by the hair and pushed his face in front of the side view mirror. 

 

“Now you look like the whore you are.” 

 

It was getting too dark to see very well, but the sight of his dark stained mouth and Christopher’s fist in his curly hair was enough to blink tears to his eyes. 

 

 _Are you not going to kill me after all,_ he wondered silently.  _Or is this how they’re going to find me?  Dead in a ditch like…like this._  

 

Before he had much time to ruminate, Christopher jerked him back, and then he was being dragged on unsteady feet across the wet ground.  His shoes kept sinking and twisting under him as he scrabbled to keep up with Christopher’s pace.  They stopped in front of the unmarked building, and there was a rattling as Christopher rolled open some kind of industrial door.

 

The first thing that assaulted Tom’s senses was smoke.  The smell of it was strong even before he was pushed inside.  Other musky, unpleasant odors mingled underneath, one of which was definitely alcohol.  As he blinked, he looked over the scene in front of him.  Some ratty, un-cleaned, furniture strewn about—at least one table, some sofas and lounge chairs.  A bare mattress in one corner.  Bottles of various liquors and evidence of more serious drug use lay about on most surfaces.  There were—Tom counted—seven men scattered about; some sitting, some standing, some reclining.  They had all looked to the door when Christopher and he had come in. 

 

“Brought you something,” Christopher said, and shoved Tom forward.  Tom struggled to keep his feet.   

 

The men started to move, at different paces, sliding toward them in the murky room. 

 

“A whore,” Christopher continued.  “Likes it rough.” 

 

One of the men was closer now, and he smiled, showing crooked teeth.  “I can see that,” he said, glancing pointedly at Tom’s obvious bruises.  Tom unconsciously wrapped a hand over one wrist, as though that would do anything to cover him. 

 

_No.  No, no, no, no, no, no, no._

 

They were gathering around him now, boxing him in—like wolves with prey.  He wobbled on his spindly heels.  Running would be impossible.     

 

“I’ll come get it when you’re done with it.” 

 

Tom’s head whipped around frantically, and he saw Christopher back out, and close the door. 

 

 _No, don’t leave me,_ he thought ridiculously, though it probably wouldn’t be any better if Christopher stayed.  He’d probably just—

 

Tom swallowed, holding back tears. 

 

Watch. 

 

There was a man standing in front of him now, moving in. 

 

“No, please,” Tom begged, lifting a hand and taking a step back.  He collided with a strong chest behind, and then there were hands at the back of his skirt.  “Don’t—“ 

 

The hands pulled, yanking the dress up over his hips, and Tom shut his eyes with a quiet sob. 


	21. In which Tom hits rock bottom, which plenty of help from Chris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gang rape and abusive beatings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought I'd kept the violence and non-con pretty...non-explicit for the chapter, but then I reread it while editing and well...it's still pretty explicit. So, heavy non-con and abuse trigger warnings for this one. 
> 
> I also have some more notes at the end of this chapter, I'd really appreciate you guys not skipping that since it has some relevancy for the future of this fic. 
> 
> Anyway, I shan't keep you any longer. Here we go:

 

 

Tom lay utterly still on the mattress as someone behind him shoved in and out between his legs, their hands groping over his rear end and thighs.

 

At first, he’d begged, struggled, even fought.  Then he’d cried, sobbing and screaming as tears poured down his face.  At one point he’d vomited, managing to hoist his head over the side of the mattress amidst raucous laughter.  He’d lost consciousness at least once, though he wasn’t sure for how long.  There’d been someone in him when he went out and someone in him when he came to.  He couldn’t tell any of them apart, faces and voices blending together into a featureless, roaring mob. 

 

Now, he lay with his eyes open, unblinking, his face turned toward his left hand on the mattress.  He’d never really examined his left hand before, he realized.  Look at all those little lines, like tree bark. 

 

The man behind him finished and another took his place.  It was a wonder they weren’t disgusted with him by now, he mused.  None of them had used protection.  _How do you like the feel of each other’s cum?_ he thought acerbically.  _You share toothbrushes too?_  

 

They’d used his mouth more in the beginning, when they’d gotten impatient, wanted to go two at once.  That had been a bit worse, Tom thought.  Harder to ignore, with the scent of them right in your nose, choking you. 

 

This was better.

 

They seemed to have lost interest, mostly, by this point.  There were sometimes long lulls between them now.  It hadn’t been like that in the beginning.       

 

They’d let him piss in bucket in the corner.  _One must be grateful for small favors._  

 

He wasn’t sure whether the fact that they’d left his dress and heels on fell into that category or not.  Not that it impeded them, they’d just left it bunched up so he was bare from the waist down.  They weren’t much interested in the rest of him. 

 

The lipstick’s probably rubbed off, he thought.  He didn’t lift a hand to check. 

 

Another splurge of cum inside him, and this one was done.  There was a longer wait for the next. 

 

Tom didn’t move.  Not one muscle.  Not a single inch. 

 

Sometime later, hands were lifting him up, pulling down his dress over his thighs.  _Yes, we must be decent, mustn’t we_ , Tom thought as he was maneuvered toward the door.

 

He looked out, the very earliest light of dawn growing in the cold, damp air, and saw Christopher leaning against the hood of his car, parked right where it’d been the night before.  Tom wondered if he’d actually left, or just stayed out there all night.  He decided he didn’t care. 

 

Christopher was watching him, unmoving.  After a moment, Tom started to make his way over.  He was in pain, he realized as he moved, and the shoes he wore were still foreign and difficult to walk in.  His progress was uneven and slow, but he didn’t fall.  He didn’t fall because he _couldn’t_ fall. 

 

Christopher pushed off the car as he approached.  He did not look less angry.  Just…more quietly angry. 

 

He pushed Tom toward the car, for which Tom was actually grateful as it gave him something to lean against, then stepped back, making a sharp tug on the strap of Tom’s dress. 

 

“Take it off.” 

 

Tom shrugged out of the tight fabric, eyes down.  God, when had he gotten so many bruises? 

 

“Now those,” Christopher ordered, jerking his chin at Tom’s feet. 

 

Tom braced himself against the car and leaned over, pulling at the clasps and letting the shoes fall over on the ground.  With relief, he placed his bare feet into the damp soil under him, suddenly aware of the aches and sores along his ankles. 

 

Christopher reached down and picked them up, the shoes in one hand, the dress in the other.  He lifted the dress to his face, and inhaled. 

 

Tom’s fingers dug into the side of the car, but he said and did nothing. 

 

Christopher went and opened the boot.  He came back with neither shoes nor dress, but holding a large-ish paper shopping bag.  He held it out with two fingers. 

 

“Now,” he began conversationally.  “Do I give you your clothes back?  Or should I drop you off like this?” 

 

Tom just looked at him.  He could feel the hardness in his face.  Then he dropped his eyes, biting inside his lip. 

 

Christopher placed the shopping bag on the back of the car, and moved to stand in front of Tom.  Tom could feel him look over his body, assessing. 

 

“Did they use your mouth too?”  he asked. 

 

“Yes,” Tom croaked, then swallowed around the dryness in his throat. 

 

“So you’re dirty all over.”  He almost sounded disappointed. 

 

“Yes,” Tom bit out. 

 

“Turn around,” Christopher sighed, and reached for his belt. 

 

Tom shuffled slowly to face the car, palms pressed lightly into the windows.  He could see his briefcase sitting on the floor in the back. 

 

“How many times did they fuck you?”  Tom blinked at the question.  “Answer me.”

 

“I don’t know,” Tom mumbled. 

 

“Answer.  Me.” 

 

“I don’t.  Know.”  He glared over his shoulder.  Christopher was silent. 

 

“More than ten?” he asked after a moment. 

 

Tom bit his lip hard.  There were no tears in his eyes, but he still fought around a lump in his throat. 

 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

 

“More than twenty?” 

 

“I—“ he choked back a sob.  “Maybe.” 

 

“Thirty?”

 

He inhaled, rasping, and shook his head back and forth helplessly. 

 

“I don’t…I don’t know.”  His lips were quavering uncontrollably.

 

“Forty?”

 

He bowed his head.  “I…”  It couldn’t be, could it?  It just…that had to be impossible.  Had to be.  “No,” he tried to say firmly.  “No, I don’t think…no.” 

 

“In that case,” he heard Christopher remark behind him, and then there was the feel of cool leather against his back.  “I’d brace myself if I were you.” 

 

Tom pressed his lips together and refused to cry.  He made fists with his hands, leaning his elbows against the car, and pressed his forehead into the cold metal frame. 

 

The first blow struck across his shoulders. 

 

“One.” 

 

The second made a diagonal down his back. 

 

“Two.” 

 

He sobbed dryly into the cold morning air, crying out like a newborn before it can produce tears, legs shaking as desperately as a foal’s.           

 

At sixteen, he fell to his knees, clawing at the side of the car. 

 

At twenty-five, he fell to the side into the dirt, pushing up on his elbows. 

 

By thirty, he was face down, flat against the muddied ground, his fingers twisting against the sides of his face. 

 

Christopher wasn’t deterred.  He stood over Tom and delivered the last ten, striking from his shoulders to down across the back’s of his legs.  

 

When Tom heard the last grumbled ‘forty’, the best he could do was turn his face to one side, and breathe. 

 

He saw Christopher’s shoes approach, and then one lifted and pressed his face further into the dirt, the hard sole biting into Tom’s cheek and jaw.  A moment later, Tom heard the sound of Christopher’s masturbation, loud in the crisp, quiet air.  Hot globs landed on his beaten back and Tom almost had the energy to flinch. 

 

Then the shoes were gone.  They returned a moment later, and a paper shopping bag dropped with a _thunk_ to the ground beside them.  Tom reached out a hand, gripping the dirt under his palm as he pulled himself to them, tucking his knees underneath himself in slow, halting motions. 

 

He bent down, and pressed his lips to the tops of Christopher’s shoes, first the left, then the right.  Then he bowed his head to the ground. 

 

A moment passed, and Tom heard Christopher walk away.  He put out a hand, and clasped the top of the shopping bag in his fist with a _crunch_.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I seem to have confused some people with some of my previous notes (sorry bout that). This story actually isn't anywhere near finished, just the whole Tom getting tortured on a regular basis part is coming to a close (this chapter is pretty much the worst of it). But, some of your guys's comments have brought up something I'd been debating with myself, so I thought I'd put the question forth to the general readership, as it were.
> 
> Do you think I should end this story and continue in a sequel, or just go on adding chapters to this story? In my head, this is definitely all one story, but from now on it is going to be very different-more 'comfort' than 'hurt'. It might be better to separate them. I don't really have a good "ending" for this fic, in that case, but I could stop with the next chapter, pick up in a sequel...anyway, thoughts, feelings, ideas? Please let me know!
> 
> Btw, for those who were asking, yes, I'm sure Tom will get a happy ending (I like those too). It's just going to take a while.


	22. In which Tom is found out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris Evans and Tom meet in a parking lot. Again.

 

 

Tom rode again on the floor in the back, aching.  He couldn’t do much else besides _ache_.  He couldn’t think.  Couldn’t feel.  He felt dead. 

 

 _Maybe I am_ , he pondered.  _Maybe I died._   He’d never imagined being dead hurting this much.  _Well, I’ve gone to Hell,_ he explained to himself.  _Obviously_. 

 

Christopher dropped him off back at the student parking lot without a word.  Or at least no words that Tom heard or could remember a minute later.  He was in his clothes from the day before.  He’d checked his pockets, and found wallet, keys and mobile all where they should be.  He hadn’t bothered with the tie.  He wiped the back of his hand across his lips and checked it, finding no trace of red.  Then he walked around the school to where he’d parked his car.  Well, ‘walked’ might be a generous description.  Shuffled.  Limped. 

 

He’d just pushed the button on his keys to unlock the door, when he heard someone call his name. 

 

 _“Tom!”_  

 

His head whipped around, and he saw Evans running across the parking lot.

 

“Where the hell have you been?” Evans gasped, stopping in front of him.  “I’ve been calling you.  Calling everybody—no one’s seen you, or heard from you, or knew where you were.  I went by your house and your car wasn’t there; someone said they saw it here, that you’d left it overnight.  Jesus Christ, Tom, are you okay?” 

 

Tom saw white.  His vision when blank, bright blinding flash of rage exploding behind his eyes.  His keys and his briefcase fell unheeded from his hands.

 

He struck Evans hard across the face, fingers curled like talons.  Evan’s head snapped to the side with a _CRACK_ , and suddenly Tom’s fists were flying. 

 

“ _YOU!_ ” he shouted breathless between blows.  “You…stupid…thoughtless…” he broke off, gasping.  “If it weren’t for you, he _never_ —“

 

But already he was starting to tire, pain and exhaustion catching up to him despite his fury.  He fell back against his car, reaching a hand behind so his injured back wouldn’t make contact.  He closed his eyes and panted, wheezing, in the near empty parking lot.

 

His eyes cracked open, and he saw Chris watching him, arms raised protectively.  He lowered them cautiously, and looked over Tom, a strange, dark expression on his face. 

 

“Tom.  Who’s ‘he’?” 

 

Tom blinked, and shook his head. 

 

“You just said ‘he’, Tom.  ‘He never’.  Who’s ‘he’?” 

 

Tom just kept shaking his head back and forth, back and forth.  “I…I can—“  He cut off.  _Think of something.  Do something.  Lie_.  A voice was telling him, but it was weak.  He was just so tired.  Still, he tried.  “I…I have to go home.  I have to…”  What?  To _what?_   “Just…fuck off.”      

 

“I can’t just let you drive off,” Chris said quietly. 

 

“— _Let_ me…!” Tom started, incensed.

 

“Tom.  Would you let you go home right now?  Alone?”  He caught Tom’s eyes, and held them. 

 

Tom’s gaze slid to the side mirror, and he looked at himself. 

 

 _Shite.  I look like shite._    And that was just his swollen eyes and sunken features, the pale bruise forming on the side of his jaw.  The neck of his shirt hung open, revealing the long marks running along his throat.  Then there was the fact that he could clearly barely stand and, oh right, that he’d just had a fit and attacked the man in front of him for no apparent reason. 

 

Tom bowed his head.       

 

Chris’s voice was soft, so soft.  “Don’t go home, Tom.  Come…come home with me.”

 

Tom actually laughed then.  “I…I can’t do that.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“He’ll—“  Tom broke off, and bit his lip for good measure. 

 

“You’ll be safer at my place than at yours.”  Tom looked up.  “Won’t you?” 

 

Tom shook his head, almost incredulous.  “That…” That wouldn’t stop him.  Would it?

 

“He…doesn’t seem to like an audience,” Chris said carefully.  “Seeing as no one even knows he exists.  He only comes after you when you’re alone.  Right?”  He looked in Tom’s eyes.  “Tom.  I won’t leave you alone.”  He reached out a hand, palm up, fingers soft.  “Please.” 

 

Everything in Tom was telling him to run, to get in his car and drive away.  But there was something stopping him, something tiny and fragile and so, so unfamiliar, that nonetheless seemed to root him.  

 

Hope. 

 

Or maybe it was despair.  He was just so, _so_ tired. 

 

He took Chris’s hand. 

 

Chris let out a slow breath.  Tom picked up his briefcase, and then saw his keys lying on the ground. 

 

“I got it,” Chris said, before Tom could reach for them, pressing them into his palm. 

 

Tom, wordless, slipped them into his pocket.  Chris put a hand at his elbow and, slowly, they walked together toward the only other car in the lot.   

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so most people seem to be for keeping this one story, so I'm gonna try that. If it's ends up being too awkward, I can always change/re-post it later. This chapter is sort of the 'end' of this part of the story, so things are gonna be pretty different from here on out. The worst is now over, though that's not to say it'll be all smooth sailing. It'll be a bumpy road, but Tom will be okay, eventually. He just needs a little help from his friends.


	23. In which there is a POV switch, and Tom gets a little sorely needed TLC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, we're finally in the 'comfort' section of our hurt/comfort story: Happy New Year you guys!
> 
> There's a lot of aftermath in this one, but no new sex and/or violence. 
> 
> Also, it's from Chris's POV! Not the Chris everyone's been WANTING a POV from, but, fuck it! This is what you're getting!
> 
> Allons-y!

 

 

Tom was staring vacantly as Chris fiddled with his keys.  He was looking through the window, at the interior of the car.  Or maybe he was just staring at nothing. 

 

“Can I—“ Tom broke off, sounding almost startled at his own voice.  Chris didn’t say anything, but he stopped moving.  He waited.  “Could I lie down?  On the backseat?” Tom asked after a moment.   

 

“Of course,” Chris said, after a second’s surprise.  He opened the back door, and Tom crawled inside.  He let his briefcase fall the floor, and sighed, curling up on one side along the cushions.

 

Chris closed the door behind him, and went to the driver’s seat.  He got in, put the keys in the ignition, and paused.  He looked in the rearview mirror.

 

The guy looked really awful.  Just…wrecked.  He was trembling slightly, as though every breath hurt.    

 

After a minute, Tom seemed to sense him looking, and opened his eyes. 

 

“If you wanted,” Chris began, watching Tom carefully.  “I could take you to a hospital.”  Tom’s eyes hardened.  “Or the police,” Chris finished, though he wasn’t feeling optimistic. 

 

“No,” Tom said flatly. 

 

“Tom,” Chris tried. 

 

“I will get out of this car.”  Tom said, pushing up on elbows determinedly. 

 

“Okay, okay,” Chris capitulated.  He sighed as Tom lay back down.  He turned on the engine.  “My place it is.”  

 

 

 

 

 

Chris returned from the bathroom to find Tom where he’d left him, standing by the counter between the kitchen and the living area.  His briefcase sat on the floor by his feet, with his jacket flung haphazardly over it.  He was staring at nothing, his fingers trailing along the very edge of the counter.   

 

“So, I’m running you a bath,” Chris started.  Tom made no indication that he’d heard him.  “And I found some clothes that should fit you.  Not…perfectly, but they should work for sleeping.  I included some underwear, just in case, which I know is weird, but I _promise_ you, they are fresh out of the package.”

 

Tom started laughing, face splitting into a gruesome smile.  It was the first reaction he’d shown, the first sound he’d made, since they’d gotten to Chris’s place.  It wasn’t a happy sound.  It was shrill and harsh and verging on hysterical, and faded after a moment into wheezing, sob-like breaths.  Then Tom was silent again. 

 

Chris just stood there stupidly, and then, because he didn’t know what else to do, decided to go on as he’d planned.

 

“Also, I thought you’d maybe like some…” he trailed off, lifting the bottle of pain meds and giving it a little shake.  Tom stared at him, unreadable.  After a minute, Chris opened the bottle and shook out two pills, laying them on the counter.  Then he fetched a glass of water and set it next to them.  Hesitantly, Tom reached for the pills, swallowing them with a small sip of water.    

 

Now for the tricky part.  Chris perched on a high stool near the counter, and took a deep breath.

 

“I was thinking,” he began, watching Tom’s fingers go back to running back and forth along the counter.  “It might be a good idea to get…to take some pictures.”  At first, there was no reaction.  Then Tom’s brow furrowed, and he looked up at Chris.  “For…documentation,” Chris said carefully. 

 

Tom blinked, then his lip quirked and he snorted softly. 

 

“I’m not going to ‘press charges’,” he said quietly.  Very quietly. 

 

“You don’t know how you’re going to feel tomorrow,” Chris responded, ready for this.  “Or the day after.  Or the day after that.  You don’t want to go to the hospital now, that’s fine, I’m not gonna make you, but it still might be a good idea to make a record of…of any injuries you might have.  Just in case.” 

 

Tom didn’t say anything.  He just stared at some spot on the floor.  Then, just as Chris was about to say something else, he shrugged. 

 

“Fine.”  He said it as though it were followed by the words ‘what the hell’, as though it didn’t matter anyway.  He shifted away from the counter.  “Where should…?” 

 

“Uh,” Chris stammered, almost caught off guard.  He hadn’t expected him to agree that quickly.  “Bathroom probably has the best lighting.”

 

Tom nodded.  Chris led him down the hall, pointing into the bright room filled with the sound of running water. 

 

“I’ll just be right back,” Chris assured him.  Tom nodded again, his hands lifting to the top button of his shirt.  Chris went to get his camera. 

 

When he came back, Tom was just stepping out of his pants, shoes, socks and shirt dumped in a pile in the corner.  The pants soon joined them. 

 

_Jesus Christ.  Jesus fucking Christ_. 

 

The dark bruises around his wrists and neck looked almost decorative when seen in the context of…this.  Tom was pulling down his underwear and Chris caught a bright flash of red against the white cotton.  He suddenly realized his grip on the camera was cramping his fingers.  He loosened them.  Tom tossed the bloody shorts on top of his pile of clothes, and Chris tried not to flinch. 

 

Tom looked at him then, opening his arms slightly in a little _well?_ gesture.  Chris took a breath. 

 

There was something grotesquely artistic about it, he thought as he looked over the plains of Tom’s body.  Like some high-minded installation at a pretentious gallery or museum.  _In this piece, I’ve taken something beautiful, and—_

Chris swallowed thickly, throat closing. 

 

_Get to work,_ he told himself.  

 

He was methodical, capturing every mark, every bruise.  He started to notice that some were older than others, like the ones on his throat were clearly newer than the odd horizontal stripes running across his stomach; the bruising around his wrists almost hid older scabbing breaks around the skin. 

 

Then he moved behind Tom and nearly dropped his camera. 

 

_One big bruise_ , that was the phrase that came to mind.  His back was purple, from shoulder to waist. 

 

Chris snapped some photos, trying not to let his hands shake, and knelt down.  There were long dark bruises along his backside and legs as well.  As he looked closer, Chris saw thin, pale stripes under the more recent bruising.  Scars, running across his rear end.  And then…yes, there was blood between his legs and buttocks.  A lot of blood, it seemed like, clumping in dried globs. 

 

“Would you like me to bend over?”

 

Chris looked up at the question, startled.  Tom wasn’t looking at him, though he’d definitely spoken.  “Get a better view.” 

 

Chris swallowed around the lump in his throat. 

 

“No,” he coughed lightly.  “That…that’s okay.”  Tom didn’t say a word. 

 

Chris snapped pictures down to Tom’s ankles, and then moved around the side, still on his knees.  He wanted to get close-ups of the marks along his hips.  He knew it was probably futile, but you could see the outline of hands and fingers so clearly in some places, maybe—

 

“Are you enjoying this?”  Chris looked up again, and this time, Tom _was_ watching him, blank faced and hooded eyed.  “Does this ‘turn you on’?”  In any other context, Chris would almost have thought he sounded seductive. 

 

“No, actually,” Chris said quietly after a moment, looking up into Tom’s cool blue eyes.  “It really doesn’t.” 

 

Tom blinked once, and gave a little half shrug.  “Well,” he said blandly, turning once again to look straight ahead.  “That makes one of us.” 

 

Chris watched him a second more before returning to his task.  A couple more shots, and he was done. 

 

“I’ll just go put this away,” he said, holding up the camera as he stood.

 

No answer. 

 

When he returned, Tom was in the exact same spot, staring in the exact same direction, with the exact same impassive look on his face.  The only movement he seemed to have made was to tilt his head slightly to one side.  Chris followed the path of his gaze, and realized Tom was staring at his own reflection in the mirror over the sink. 

 

Feeling awkward, Chris made his way around Tom to the bath and checked the water. 

 

“This is just about ready,” he said over his shoulder. 

 

Tom nodded slightly and turned around, moving to edge of the tub.  Chris was just turning off the water when he noticed Tom’s brow furrow.  Then he sniffed, leaning ever so slightly over the bath. 

 

“I added some oils and things,” Chris explained.  “Aloe Vera, chamomile, lavender…stuff like that.”  Tom was looking at him strangely.  “I know, I know, I’m a girl, but this stuff really works,” Chris said lightly.  He held out a hand, and nodded towards the tub.  “Do you wanna…?” 

 

A pause, and then Tom put one hand in Chris’s to steady himself, and stepped over the edge.  He winced slightly, and reached his other hand to brace against the back wall, but managed.  When he had both feet in, in dropped Chris’ hand. 

 

He stayed like that, one hand against the wall, standing ankle deep in warm water.  There was a slightly pained, almost frustrated look on his face.  Chris held out an arm again. 

 

“Can I…?”  Tom made a fist, but lifted his hand, letting Chris reach under so Tom could brace himself on his shoulder.  “Just bend your knees,” Chris murmured.  “Now, get one knee under you, there you go…” 

 

Tom hissed when the water hit between his thighs, but then just dropped his other knee and slowly sat back toward his heels.  When he was steady, he dropped both arms limply to his sides with a small splash. 

 

Chris brought a pile of clean washcloths over and handed one to Tom.  Tom stared at it blankly for a second, but took it.  He dipped it in the water, pulled it out dripping from one hand, and sort of half-heartedly rubbed it across his shoulder. 

 

_He’s probably in pain_ , Chris thought to himself.  He picked up another washcloth. 

 

“May I?” he asked, gesturing.  Tom looked at cloth in his handed under hooded eyes, and nodded, dropping his hand back into the water. 

 

Chris dipped the cloth in the tub, and raised it carefully to Tom’s back.  He made slow, careful wipes down the skin.  There was something sticky that took some scrubbing to flake off, but Tom didn’t flinch.  Bit by bit, he ran the cloth over Tom’s arms and shoulders and chest, even up over his neck and down to his stomach.  He was just hesitating, wondering if he should go further, when Tom lifted slightly up on his knees and slid his own damp cloth between his legs.  He rubbed back and forth once, twice, three times, and sat back down.  The water grew red around him. 

 

Chris swallowed hard.  He pulled the laundry bin over and tossed in the washcloth he’d been using, offering it to Tom, who followed suit.  Then he pulled the plug on the bath.  As the water drained out, he turned on the faucet again. With a small plastic container, he poured fresh water over the tub to rinse it and, gently, over Tom as well.  When the bath was empty, he replaced the plug and let it refill, adding more oils into the running water. 

 

Tom watched all this happen without a sound or a motion, but he _was_ watching, tracking over each development. 

 

“Could I—“ Chris looked up, trying not to appear surprised Tom had spoken.  Tom swallowed, then seemed to try again. “Could I wash my hair?” 

 

“Sure,” Chris responded after a second.  He grabbed a bottle and handed it over, managing to feel embarrassed, despite everything.  “This…is all I have.” 

 

Tom smiled softly.  “This’s fine,” he said, and took the 99-cent (well, pence. Whatever) bottle of shampoo, pouring some gel into his palm.  He lifted his arms and began working the suds into his hair.  Quickly though, it became apparent that this put strains on his back, and after a moment he dropped his arms again, jaw clenched. 

 

“W…would you like me to…?”  Chris offered.  Tom bit his lip, but after a moment, nodded sharply.  Chris reached for the bottle and Tom closed his eyes. 

 

At the first touch of Chris’ soapy fingers into his hair, Tom let out a deep breath and Chris felt him relax.  He worked shampoo through Tom’s locks and over his scalp as Tom tilted his head back, hands fixed on the sides of the tub, but his neck and shoulders notably uncoiled.  After a few moments, Tom actually shifted, pushing his legs out straight and leaning back in the tub.  He winced slightly as he sat, but then seemed to settle, pushing up with his hands on the bottom of the bath to keep weight off his most damaged areas. 

 

Chris pulled back almost reluctantly, Tom’s hair full of suds, and rinsed his hands in the bath. 

 

“Ok,” he said softly, reaching for the plastic container.  “Let me just—“

 

Tom took a deep breath, and fell back into the water.  He lay almost flat against the bottom, despite his back, and shook his head underneath. 

 

_Well, that’s one way to do it_ , Chris mused, as soap slid from Tom’s hair into the bathwater.  After a few moments, Tom lay still, eyes closed.  There weren’t even bubbles floating up from his closed lips.  He looked…peaceful, almost. 

 

Moments passed. 

 

Then a few more. 

 

_He’s not drowning_ , Chris said to himself.  But, it was somewhat disconcerting.  He was just so…still, no breath, no nothing.  His hair swirling around his head in the water was the only thing in motion. 

 

Some more seconds ticked by, which Chris tried not to count.  There wasn’t even a clock in the room, but Chris could have _sworn_ he could hear the ticking. 

 

_Tick.  Tick.  Tick._

 

He lunged forward.

 

“ _Tom_ ,” he didn’t quite shout, and just then the man surged out of the water, gasping.  Hair stuck to his face as he blinked water from his eyes.  Chris silently handed him a dry washcloth, and he wiped his face.  He glanced at Chris. 

 

“Do you…have a toothbrush?”

 

“…Yeah.” 

 

Chris found an extra, ripping it out of its package.  He added toothpaste and wetted it under the sink, then handed it to Tom. 

 

Tom was scrubbing furiously over his neck and chest, but when he saw the offered toothbrush, he switched the cloth to his other hand and took it, jabbing it into his mouth.  He brushed every centimeter—the teeth, the gums, his tongue, the roof of his mouth.  He went under his tongue and far back towards his throat.  Chris offered him the plastic tub, and he spat.  Then he went right back to brushing.  He spat again, and Chris held out a bottle of mouthwash.  A moment’s hesitation, and he dropped the brush into the plastic container, and grabbed the bottle. 

 

He took a swig, swishing and gargling fervently before spitting again.  He lifted the bottle to his lips a second time, and this time he gulped the mouthwash down, swallowing in rapid succession.

 

“Hey, hey, easy there,” Chris interrupted, reaching out a hand for the mouthwash.  Tom didn’t say anything, but he did relinquish the bottle without  fight.  Then, he was scrubbing again, his arms and chest and legs—every inch right down to his ears and fingernails.  He scrubbed his back, as much as he could reach, with seemingly no care taken for his bruises.  He spread his legs and swabbed between his thighs.  Chris almost said something, but…it probably did need to be cleaned, didn’t it?

 

_You should have let me take you to a hospital,_ he thought helplessly, as more blood stained the water.  Tom just rubbed and rubbed with the washcloth, then dumped it into the laundry bin and went back with fingers full of soap.  He dug inside and his face contorted, and now Chris really did think he should say something, but just then Tom stopped and lunged forward, yanked at the plug in the drain, and slammed on the shower. 

 

The bath water swirled away under Tom’s knees, his hands pressed to the wall in front of him above the faucet as water streamed down over his bowed head and shoulders. 

 

As water poured over him, and Tom breathed hard, mouth working with every breath, all Chris could think was, _dear God, don’t let me screw this up, please, don’t let me make this worse_.

 

_I’m not prepared for this,_ he thought selfishly. 

 

_Doesn’t matter.  He needs you to be.  He needs you be someone who can handle this._

_So man up, and get it done._

 


	24. In which Tom gets some rest (which is hopefully more interesting than it sounds)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bath, some soup, and sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Tom's POV

 

 

Rivulets of water cascaded across his skin and Tom closed his eyes, savoring the feel of the drenching spray beating down on him. 

 

Long moments passed and he finally remembered that he wasn’t alone.  Self-consciously he turned off the water, and shifted his eyes to the man at his left.  Chris was watching him, his expression not quite readable, but all he did was hold out a fluffy white towel. 

 

Tom took it, and let Chris help him from the bathtub.  He stood, dripping, and ran the towel over himself, eyes cast down. 

 

“There are the clothes I got for you,” Chris said, gesturing to a pile on the toilet seat.  “I’ll…be back in a minute.” 

 

Tom nodded mutely and didn’t turn his head to watch Chris leave the room.  He pulled on clean underwear and a pair of grey track pants, and was just pulling the drawstring tight when Chris returned.  He was carrying several large, clear, resealable plastic bags.  He knelt down, and carefully placed Tom’s ruined pants in one of them, sealing it closed.  He opened another, and reached again toward the pile Tom’s discarded clothing. 

 

“I wasn’t wearing them,” Tom heard himself say.  Chris looked up.  “When…when it happened.  I wasn’t wearing those.  So there won’t be any…thing.  On them.” 

 

Chris lowered the plastic bag, eyes dropping.  His other hand held what was once a crisp white shirt between his fingers. 

 

“You know,” he said after a minute, lifting the dirtied fabric.  “I found this really good dry cleaners, they could probably fix these up in a few hours.”

 

“Oh good,” Tom said flatly.  “Because I was really worried about that.” 

 

Chris’s eyes fell again, his hand dropping back towards the floor.  Tom felt immediately ashamed. 

 

“I’m sorry, I…” he looked at Chris, swallowing, eyes flickering to the floor and his own fidgeting fingers.  “You’ve been very kind.  I just…” he shook his head slightly, suddenly deeply uncomfortable.  “I can get those,” he said quickly, and reached out hand.

 

“Hey, hey,” Chris said, standing.  He moved to Tom and placed two soft hands on his upper arms.  “You don’t have to be sorry.  Or grateful.  Or…polite.”  Chris looked Tom in the eye.  “I’m not doing you a favor.  This is what you’re owed.”  He turned, and picked up the t-shirt from the toilet seat, offering it to Tom with a slight quirk to his mouth, but earnest eyes.  “You get to take it.  No apologies.”

 

Tom stared, but slowly lifted a hand and took hold of the bunched fabric.  Chris smiled silently, and left the room. 

 

Tom watched him go.  _You don’t know_ , he wanted to say. 

 

He pulled on the t-shirt, used the toilet, and followed him out. 

 

There was light streaming through the blinds in the main room.  Chris’s flat was small; cluttered, but not dirty.  Tom wandered awkwardly to the counter as Chris fussed in the kitchen. 

 

“Are you hungry?”  Chris asked him. 

 

“I…” Tom trailed off.  He really wasn’t sure.  “Thirsty.” 

 

Chris nodded, and poured him a glass of water.  Tom drank it down, refilled it, and drained the glass again.  He blinked, eyes drooping.  Chris looked at him, brow furrowing. 

 

“Did you…sleep at all last night?” 

 

Tom continued blinking, and thought.  “I…may have passed out.  At some point.  Does that count?” 

 

Chris’s face didn’t move.  “Not generally,” he said quietly.  “Okay, so, maybe sleep is a bigger priority.  You can use my bed, it’s right through there.”  He pointed. 

 

“I…” Tom took an unconscious step back.  He really didn’t want to do that.  He looked around, and spotted a sofa over his shoulder.  “No, that’s…that’s fine.  I can just sleep here,” he assured, gesturing.

 

Chris’s brow creased.  “It’s really no trouble.  And…it gets pretty bright in here, even with the blinds—“

 

“That’s fine,” Tom repeated. 

 

Chris was quiet.  “Okay.   Just…it folds out, so give me a minute.” 

 

It was a few minutes, while Tom continued to stand there uselessly, but soon Chris had pulled out the sofa into a bed, and found pillows and bedding to go with it.  He gestured, and Tom climbed in, pulling the blankets up to his neck.  The sun shone in between the blinds, leaving patterns of asymmetrical stripes along the bed, but nonetheless, Tom felt himself drift off the sleep almost immediately.  Sunlight warmed the side of his cheek as he breathed evenly, tightness in his chest uncoiling with every exhale. 

 

 

 

 

 

Tom blinked into consciousness, shoulders rolling as he groaned softly.  Strangely, he felt no disorientation about waking up in an unfamiliar place.  He shifted up on his elbows, turning to sit on one hip. 

 

“Hey, you’re awake.”  Tom looked around and found Chris sitting on a stool at the counter that divided kitchen from living space.  He quickly stood, moving to open a kitchen cabinet.  “Think you’d be up for eating something?  Maybe some soup?”  He pulled out a couple cans, inspecting the labels.  “You could have…tomato or…chicken noodle.”  He held up a can in each hand and looked to Tom expectantly, at which point Tom’s stomach took it upon itself to growl.  Loudly.  “…Or both,” Chris said brightly. 

 

Tom laughed, embarrassed.  “Um…chicken noodle is fine.”

 

“Okie-dokey,” said Chris, and pulled out a pot. 

 

Tom stayed in bed.  His back and anus still hurt quite badly, and he focused on finding a position that was most tolerable.  He’d mostly succeeded by the time Chris brought him a large, steaming, bowl.  He took it carefully, and at the first taste of broth on his lips he realized how hungry he really was.  He essentially inhaled the soup, at which point Chris immediately asked if he wanted more.  Tom nodded, and then ate the second bowl as quickly as the first, after which he felt much better. 

 

He stood, carrying his empty dish and spoon, and brought them slowly to the kitchen. 

 

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, as he handed them to Chris.  “Could I have some water?” 

 

Chris brought him a glass, along with two aspirin.  Tom swallowed the pills and then emptied the offered glass in a series of gulps.  He refilled it, and did the same again, at which point he noticed that he needed to piss, so he excused himself to the washroom.  When he returned, he found himself quite tired again, so with only a few words to and from Chris, he crawled back into bed and was quickly asleep again. 

 

He dreamed of colors swirling about each other in ever shifting patterns.  

 


	25. In which there is more fallout and Tom comes clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris takes Tom back to his place to pick up some things. It goes downhill from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the encouraging notes you guys! I'm glad you're enjoying this part of the story as well :-) 
> 
> This chapter has some things that could potentially be triggery from the abuse/harrassment angle, so be warned. 
> 
> I don't know if I'll continue to switch POV back and forth, but that seems to be trend so far. Hope it's not too confusing.

 

 

Chris stood in the kitchen in his pajamas, cooking over the stove, when Tom stirred again, lifting his head from the pillow with a yawn and a stretch. 

 

“Good morning,” Chris said, shooting for friendly.  Tom groaned softly and rubbed his eyes. 

 

“What day is it?” he asked blearily. 

 

Chris smiled, snorting.  “It is Sunday, obscenely early in the morning, in case you were wondering.  Tom ran a hand over his face and wobbled onto his feet.  “You hungry?” Chris asked hopefully.  “I have bacon and eggs, all ready to go.” 

 

Tom moved haltingly toward the kitchen, and licked his lips. 

 

“I…maybe just some toast.  And a glass of water.” 

 

Chris nodded, hiding his disappointment.  Apparently, his appetite from the other day had passed.  He slid a plate of toast and some water toward Tom across the counter.  Tom lifted the glass first, and downed it.  He drained two more glasses before he even touched the toast.  Chris popped out two more aspirin and handed them over with a fourth glass, all of which were consumed in another few seconds.    

 

Chris was all for hydration, but every time Tom lifted a glass of water to his lips, chugging it down without a pause, he couldn’t help but remember him lying under the water in the bathtub, or drinking down gulps of mouthwash as though he were trying to clean himself from the inside out. 

 

Tom took tiny bites out of a slice of toast, chewing slowly and swallowing as though it were difficult. 

 

“So, I was thinking,” Chris started, tone casual.  “We could maybe stop by your place today, let you pick up some things to bring over.  You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, but I’m thinking you might want a few more changes of clothes and…stuff.”  He ended, almost sounding like a question.  Tom slowed his eating even further, but nodded.  Chris nodded back, and went on.  “I have some things you can borrow for today, they’re waiting for you in the bathroom whenever you’re ready.  Oh, and we could drop your things at that dry cleaners I told you about.”  Tom just nodded again, setting down his half-eaten toast. 

 

“I’ll just…” he pointed towards the bathroom. 

 

“Okay,” answered Chris, probably a little too brightly. 

 

While Tom showered and changed, Chris cleaned up the kitchen and put the leftover food in the fridge.  When Tom came back out, Chris blinked a minute, staring. 

 

“What?” Tom asked self-consciously.  Chris had found him a pair of jeans and a long sleeved shirt, which actually managed to fit okay, though the pants ran a bit short. 

 

“Nothing,” Chris said, shaking himself.  “I just...” he laughed.  “Do you even own a pair of jeans?” 

 

Tom looked at him, unimpressed.  “Of course I do.”  

 

“I’ve just never seen you…” Chris elaborated, still a bit flummoxed. 

 

“You’ve only ever seen me at work,” Tom chided lightly. 

 

Chris bit his lip, suddenly sobering.  “I guess so.” 

 

Tom glanced down.  “Speaking of, I have some papers for Monday.  Is my briefcase…?” 

 

“Right here,” Chris said quickly, dashing to the hall and bringing it back. 

 

Tom took it in two hands.  “Thank you.  And…is there a place I could…?”  He gestured vaguely about the room. 

 

“Oh!  Right.  Um…”  Chris looked around, and settled on the table just next to kitchen.  He supposed it’d be considered a “dining table”, though it was currently covered in odds and ends.  Chris swiftly cleared a space, and pulled out a chair with a little awkward flourish.  “Right here.” 

 

Tom smiled and walked over, placing his briefcase on the table.

 

“Thank you,” he said again, softly. 

 

“I’ll just…go get dressed, and then we can head out,” Chris said, feeling embarrassed.  Tom nodded quietly, and opened his briefcase. 

 

Chris showered and shaved, pulled on some clothes, and went back out.  He found Tom sitting quietly at the table, marking over a stack of papers with a ballpoint pen. 

 

Chris stopped in the hallway, frowning.  He was trying to figure out what was so strange about what he was seeing, and then it hit him.  It was that it _wasn’t_ strange.  Tom looked totally normal.  He sat in his chair and looked over his papers as though everything was fine, as though he wasn’t in any pain, or covered in bruises, or had just slept for nearly twenty hours from sheer exhaustion.  As though this were like any other day. 

 

That last thought sent a chill through Chris, and he pushed it away before he could follow it any further. 

 

He took a few steps into the room, and Tom looked up, putting down his pen. 

 

“I have a jacket you can use,” Chris said, moving to the front closet. 

 

Tom nodded, and stood, following.  He put on Chris’s spare jacket and zipped it up to his chin.  Chris had put Tom’s shoes by the front door, and Tom reached down, picking them up with three fingers.  He looked at them with a slight grimace, then down at his current outfit.  The brown leather dress shoes didn’t exactly fit with the jeans and windbreaker look. 

 

“I’m sure I have some extra sneakers,” Chris said, heading for his bedroom.  Tom shot him a grateful smile, and lowered the shoes back to the floor. 

 

Soon, they were in Chris’s car, Tom’s clothes stuffed in a laundry bag in the backseat.  Chris drove, while Tom stared out the passenger side window.  They didn’t speak.  The only sounds were the humming engine and the tinkling of metal as Tom fiddled with his keys.  It was driving Chris a little crazy, and he thought more than once about turning on the radio, except he was pretty sure that would just make it _more_ awkward.  God, was there any song that could play right now that wouldn’t make him supremely uncomfortable?    

 

They pulled up to Tom’s house and Chris turned off the engine.  He sat, turning his head to look at Tom, who continued to look out the window.  Chris was just opening his mouth to say something, when Tom pulled the handle on the door and stepped outside. 

 

Chris followed Tom to his door, staying a few paces behind.  He wasn’t sure how close would be considered ‘crowding’.  Tom unlocked the front door and pushed it in.  Then he stopped, dropping his hand with a sharp breath.  When he didn’t move, Chris took a few steps forward and peeked over Tom’s shoulder. 

 

He sucked in a deep breath, jaw dropping.  He didn’t say _oh my God_ , but he thought it very loudly. 

 

The place was a wreak.  Everything was on the floor, or knocked over, or broken.

 

“Wait—“ Chris said as Tom stepped over the threshold, but he was ignored, and could only quickly follow, closing the door behind him.  _What if he’s still here?_ He thought, heart pounding, but in truth the whole space felt deathly still and uninhabited. 

 

He followed Tom from the living room to the kitchen, where every single dish appeared to have been smashed on the floor, and then up the stairs.  A door opened on the right, and Tom barely hesitated before walking in. 

 

Chris had a harder time and found himself stuck in the doorway.  There was a stench, one of which was clearly smoke.  There were torn pillows and sheets scattered everywhere and the bed…the bed had been urinated on, that was the other smell.  There were objects arranged on it, Chris noticed as he stepped tentatively inside—rubber and metal and leather.  Sex toys.  But the biggest impression was the word _WHORE_ written on the wall above the bed in waxy red.  When he looked closer, he saw that among the objects on the mattress were what looked like dozens of empty tubes of lipstick. 

 

Chris looked around on the floor and managed to find a comforter that was mostly intact, and spread it over the bed, hiding it and staunching some of the smell.  He looked at Tom, but Tom wasn’t paying attention.  He was looking in his closet. 

 

There was a smashed mirror on the door, but more importantly was the mass of torn and blackened clothing.  Some was still hanging, thought much of it had fallen to floor.  Tom was biting his lip, almost shaking, as he looked at his ruined suits. 

 

“Tom,” Chris said softly.  “Tom, who did this?”

 

Tom just shook his head back and forth. 

 

“Tom, please.  Look at me.” 

 

Slowly, Tom turned, not just his head, but his whole body to face Chris. 

 

“I need you to tell me who who’s doing this.”  _I need to know what I’m up against._

 

Tom shook his head again, staring at something over Chris’s shoulder. 

 

“I can’t tell you,” he said after a minute, voice choked. 

 

Chris felt frustration build in his chest, but he forced himself to breath it out. 

 

“Why not?” he asked calmly.

 

“Because,” Tom replied, lips quivering, but each word carefully pronounced.  “I need your help.  And if I tell you…you _won’t_.” 

 

Chris blinked, flabbergasted. 

 

“That’s…” _Insane._   “Of course I…Tom, there’s nothing you—“

 

“ _It’s a student.”_  

 

Tom spoke with his eyes closed, mouth working like he was swallowing poison.  Then he laughed, cold and bitter, and glanced around the room.  “This is what happens when you fuck a teenager.”

 

Chris looked over the room again.  _Holy shit.  Holy.  Shit._

That was…horrifying.  Really, _really_ , just a terrifying thought.  Some _kid_ did this?  Then he thought of the blood and bruises he’d photographed in an over-bright bathroom, and actually shuddered.   

 

Tom was watching him, and must have misinterpreted the horror on his face, because he smiled grimly, eyes hard. 

 

“What?” he asked, dripping with sarcasm.  “Did you think I was some innocent victim?  Some… _damsel_ you could rescue?  Ride in on your white horse,” he snorted, turning his head toward the red letters on his wall, and muttered bitingly.  “The great American hero.”  

 

“Tom,” Chris said carefully after a moment.  “This…none of this is your fault.”

 

“How do you know?” Tom snapped, turning his head sharply to glare at him.  “How do you _possibly_ know?”  He shook his head.  “As far as you’re aware I could…I could have been… _abusing_ him for months, and he’s just now lashing out.”  His stumbling words and debate team tone did not make him sound particularly convincing. 

 

“No,” Chris said quietly, and with certainty.  “No, I don’t think so.”

 

“Oh, you don’t think I’m capable of that?”  Tom’s eyes grew dark and he chuckled hatefully.  “You have no _idea_ what I’m capable of.” 

 

“You’re working too hard at it.”

 

Tom swallowed, and dropped his gaze. 

 

“It takes work,” he murmured thoughtfully after a moment, almost to himself.  ‘To be…truly depraved.”  He lifted his eyes.  “It takes _work_.”  His tongue clicked the last syllable, and he fell silent.  

 

Chris didn’t know what to say to that. 

 

“Come on.  Let’s…you have a suitcase or something?”  At first wasn’t sure Tom was going to respond, but then he seemed to fold in on himself, and turned to dig around the bottom of the closet.  He pulled out a large-ish suitcase, and laid it out open on the floor.

 

Then he stood, and without a word, left the room. 

 

Chris followed him back downstairs, and watched as he moved about decisively.  He pulled photos from their broken frames, found files of papers squirreled away and untouched.  His laptop had been dumped on the floor, but appeared mostly intact, and he also collected the charger for his phone.  A few knick-knacks that managed not to be destroyed. Chris helped him carry everything back up.  Tom didn’t even glance at the bathroom, just headed back to the bedroom and started fitting his items carefully into the suitcase.  Then Tom made for his drawers.  They’d been pulled out of the chest and the contents dumped out, but Tom managed to find some unharmed socks and underwear, along with a few t-shirts and two pairs of jeans. 

 

Then, he walked to the closet. He lifted one hand, pulling forlornly at one burnt and ragged sleeve. 

 

“Is…anything salvageable?” Chris asked cautiously. 

 

Tom shrugged helplessly, and dropped his hand. 

 

“Well, we can get the one we have in the car cleaned,” Chris offered, feeling pathetic. 

 

Tom nodded absently.  Then, suddenly, he paused, eyes lighting.  He rushed to a bin in the corner, and pulled out piles of wrinkled clothes, dumping them on the floor.  He reached down into the very bottom, and lifted several handfuls of musky fabric. 

 

He actually smiled. 

 

“I’d forgotten about these,” he said, glancing at Chris.  “They’ve been in here since October.”  He detached a pair of white briefs from a pair of dress pants, dropping the former onto the pile at his feet.  Chris spotted streaks of dark red-brown. 

 

_October.  Is that when this started?_ he felt like shouting.  He thought of the man he’d met a month ago, with the small half-smiles that never reached his eyes.  _If I’d met you five months ago, would I even recognize you?  What were you like then?  What did he do to you?_   His inner voice was yelling, almost hysterical. 

 

Tom picked through his clothes, ending up with what looked like two sets of suits, complete with dress shirts and ties.  He held them awkwardly, somewhat despairing. 

 

“These are probably stained by now, but…” he trailed off, looking to Chris with a mutedly hopeful expression. 

 

“We’ll take them to the dry cleaners, with the other one,” Chris said, reassuring.  “I’ll…go look for a bag for those.” 

 

Tom nodded absently as Chris snuck out the door.  Halfway down the stairs, he stopped, bracing one hand against the wall before leaning his forehead next to it, closing his eyes. 

 

He didn’t cry.  He took three deep breaths, and kept moving.       

     

 


	26. In which errands are run and Tom is reminded of something he forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dry cleaning, uncomfortable conversations, and Tom cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to previous trauma, nothing explicit. Tom's brain working against him.

 

 

Tom looked out the window as they drove in silence.  His suitcase was in the back, along with bags holding what was left of his work wardrobe.  That was all he had now, his whole life stuffed into three containers, and he wasn’t even all that broken up about it.  As far as he was concerned, they could burn the whole house to ash. 

 

They pulled in front of a dry cleaners, and Tom eyed the shop window warily, a strange kind of embarrassed apprehension forming in his stomach. 

 

Chris turned off the car, and paused. 

 

“Do you want to wait here?” he asked Tom, after a moment. 

 

Tom nodded quietly, annoyed at how grateful he felt.  Chris took the bags from the back and went inside.  Tom watched him speak animatedly to the person behind the counter. 

 

_He doesn’t know.  He still doesn’t understand._

 

Chris came back some minutes later. 

 

“They said they could have them ready in a few hours, so I was thinking we could grab lunch around here, pick them up after?” 

 

Tom nodded, not really listening. 

 

They ended up at a diner-style restaurant, mostly empty, and sat in a far corner away from the other tables.  Tom picked at his salad, not feeling very hungry. 

 

They sat in silence for a while, but it was Chris who eventually broke it.

 

“So, there’s something else I…thought we should talk about,” Chris said, sounding hesitant.  Tom looked at him blankly from across the table.  Chris appeared as though he were trying very hard not to look awkward.  “Is there…any reason you can think of that maybe you should get…tested?”

 

Tom did not misunderstand, and a series of distasteful images and sounds clattered across his brain. 

 

He blinked once, and then nodded, dropping his eyes back to his plate. 

 

“Yes,” he said quietly after a moment, in case that hadn’t been clear. 

 

“We could…we could do that today, too,” Chris offered.  “I know a…a clinic, not too far.  They’re…good.  Very discrete.” 

 

Tom nodded, distracted, then raised his eyes, brow furrowing. 

 

“How do you know?” 

 

“Sorry?”  Chris asked, mouth half full. 

 

“How do you know,” Tom repeated.  “About the clinic.” 

 

Chris shrugged.  “I’m a health teacher.” 

 

Tom eyed him.  “You’re a football coach,” he corrected.  

 

Chris laughed a little.  “Yeah, but I’m also a health teacher.  Look, I know…what people think about coaches who teach, but…” he sighed, as though he were looking for words.  “It’s not…I’m not one more than the other, y’know?  I take my job seriously, and so I try to…get familiar with…things.  I volunteer a lot.  I think…I think it can help people, to have someone who…who knows stuff, that they can go to, talk to.  Not, like, ‘save the world’ help people, but…” he sighed again, trailing off.  “It’s something.  I can do.”  His eyes skirted away, and he took another bite. 

 

Tom just listened. 

 

“Okay,” he said after a minute.  Chris looked at him, questioning.  “We’ll…go today.”  Chris smiled softly, and nodded. 

 

They picked up his clothes, hanging them in the backseat, and then Chris drove him to the clinic.     

 

There was a short wait, and then Tom was led to a back room.  Chris stayed behind in the lobby.  A young woman with a clipboard shook his hand and offered him a seat. 

 

“Alright, we do have a few questions.  It’s all completely confidential, of course, and you’re under no obligation to answer, but it does help us gather important data.  Do you mind?”  She looked at him, a friendly, polite smile on her face. 

 

He shrugged. 

 

“Alright.  Thank you.  Now, first of all, have you engaged in any unprotected sex in the last six months?” 

 

Tom stared at her blankly, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. 

 

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.  She made a mark on her clipboard.    

 

“And was that sex homosexual, heterosexual, or both?” She asked, un-phased.

 

“Homosexual.”  Another check with her pen.    

 

“And how many partners have you had in the last six months?” 

 

Tom’s right eye twitched, and he finally lost patience. 

 

“Two nights ago I was fucked by seven men for what could have been twelve hours.  That’s why I’m here.”  He glanced, pointing at her clipboard.  “Is there a ‘box’ for that?” 

 

The woman went quiet.  She carefully put down her pen, and placed a warm, firm hand over Tom’s.  She said nothing, and her face was calm, but there was real compassion in her eyes. 

 

After a minute, Tom pulled his hand away, looking down, ashamed.  _Well done, more pity you don’t deserve._

She sat back, and offered him a card. 

 

“We have counselors here,” she said kindly.  “All free and confidential.  They’re quite good.”  She gave a little smile.  “My name’s on the back there.  If you call and ask for me, I’ll set you up.  Get through all the red tape.” 

 

Tom stared at the little piece of paper.  He took it, and placed it in his pocket, not ever intending to use it.  She smiled, and he felt absolutely awful.

 

“Now, let’s get you sorted.” 

 

She ran the tests efficiently, and then sent him off with a cream and a sample of mild antibiotics, just in case. 

 

Chris was waiting, and stood up to meet him. 

 

“They say they’ll call in a few days, when they have the results,” Tom told him, probably unnecessarily. 

 

They drove back to Chris’s place and brought Tom’s things inside.  It turned out Chris didn’t have much closet space, so the ended up hanging his dry cleaning in the living room windows.  Tom stepped back and stared at them a moment, something odd working in his chest.  Then, he plugged in his phone, which had been completely dead for a while now, and took more aspirin, along with three glasses of water. 

 

“So, I was gonna make pasta for dinner tonight,” Chris commented.  “That sound okay?” 

 

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Tom said, barely audible.  He was feeling a little lost, like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do now.  He should probably work on his papers for tomorrow, so that’s what he did.  There wasn’t too much left, and soon he was at loose ends again.  He could get ready for bed, he supposed…

 

He got into the same lounge clothes Chris had given him the night before and brushed his teeth, before remembering that they hadn’t eaten dinner yet.  Chris was just getting around to cooking.  Tom sighed, and checked his phone, turning it on now that it had had time to charge. 

 

He frowned. 

 

“Something wrong?”  Tom looked up to find Chris looking at him. 

 

“My sisters called.”  And his mother, all at once.  Worriedly, he checked his messages. 

 

“Hey there, little brother, just calling to wish you a Happy Birthday.  I hope you’re not picking up because of the _crazy wild party_ you’re at, and not because you’re busy _working_.  Anyway, call me when you can.  Love you!” 

 

There were similar messages from Emma and his mother.  Tom got to the end, and lowered his hand, letting his phone drop heedlessly onto the counter. 

 

“Everything okay?” asked Chris, concerned. 

 

Tom shook his head haltingly, mouth working as he stared at nothing. 

 

“It…was my birthday.” 

 

Chris’s expression changed to something much more sad, and suddenly Tom’s hands were in his hair.  He gripped the sides of his head, face crumpling, and then he was crying.  Tears streamed down his face and he sobbed brokenly into the room.  His knees shook and then buckled, and he was falling to the floor.  Chris caught him, helping him to his knees, and Tom grabbed onto his shirt and wailed into his shoulder.  Chris wrapped careful arms around his back, holding him gently as he shook and wept and screamed. 

 

Tom didn’t know how long they stayed like that.  He quieted after a while, only for a fresh wave to rip out of him a few minutes later.  Chris just held him, not saying a word, not making any sound at all.

 

Eventually, Tom came back to himself.  He felt drained, and dizzy, and little by little he became aware of Chris.  Darkness bloomed in the pit of his chest.   

 

“Would you like to fuck me?” Tom croaked into Chris’s chest.  Then he thought about the state his arse was still in.  “Or,” he went on, as Chris put careful hands on his shoulders and slowly pushed him away.  “You could use my mouth.  If you want.” 

 

Chris was staring at him with an expression Tom thought he’d be probably wearing himself if he were watching this. 

 

“Why would you say something like that?”  It didn’t sound like an accusation, just a somewhat concerned question, but Tom hung his head anyway. 

 

He shrugged, throat tightening.  “I don’t know.”

 

“Tom, you know I’d never…I’d never expect—”

 

“I know,” Tom assured him, more tears forming behind his eyes.  “I just…I don’t know.  I had to…”  He couldn’t look him in the eye.  “It’s like there are these… _compulsions_.  I don’t…I don’t _want_ to, really, I just…”  He bit his lip.    

 

Chris was quiet a moment.  “Tom, maybe you shouldn’t go in to work tomorrow.”  Tom was already shaking his head.  “Take some time off, some sick days.” 

 

“No,” Tom said, head still shaking.  “I can’t.”   

 

“Tom,” Chris urged.  “After what you’ve been through—“

 

“No,” Tom said again firmly.  “I need…I need to go to work.”

 

“ _Why?_ ” Chris implored.   

 

“Because I need it!”  Tom finally looked up.  “I need…” he glanced away again, bringing a hand to his face.  “It’s the only time I can pretend…” he bit his lip, his hands falling back to his lap.  “That I feel _normal_ , even if—“ He cut off.  He looked at Chris, begging him to understand. 

 

Chris studied him, thoughtful.  Sad. 

 

“Won’t—” Chris stopped, started again.  “Will he be there?  At school?” 

 

Tom looked down at his hands, scratching at his cuticles. 

 

“It’ll be fine,” he said quietly. 

 

“ _Tom._ ”

 

“It will be fine,” he said clearly, looking Chris in the eye.  Then he looked away again.  “I’ll just…” he took a breath.  “Can you be there?  After school, after my last class?” 

 

A hand at his shoulder gave a squeeze.  “Of course.” 

 

Tom nodded.  Then, before he’d even realized he’d decided to, he spoke again. 

 

“On…on Friday, he…he grabbed me on the way to the parking lot.”  He glanced up at Chris, chin pulled to his chest. 

 

Chris looked him right in the eyes. 

 

“We won’t let that happen again.” 

 

Tom nodded, looking away. 

 

“…And…at lunch…”

 

“I’ll be there,” Chris said decisively.  Tom was silent.      

 

“Come on,” Chris said after a minute.  “I’m just about ready to put the pasta on.  Help me with the salad?”

 

Tom nodded numbly, and got to his feet.    

 

 


	27. In which there is additional vandalism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris takes Tom to school

 

 

After dinner, Tom headed straight for bed.  Chris was noticing that he had two modes thus far: violent outbursts of some kind, and numb stupor.   To be honest, Chris much preferred the violent outbursts.  At least then something was happening that made some sort of sense to him.  Tom _should_ be shouting or crying, ranting and raving.  This…dazed fog was just disquieting. 

 

Chris had tried to bring up going to the authorities again at dinner, but Tom wouldn’t hear of it.  The idea that anyone could look at the evidence and think that Tom was the responsible party was ridiculous, but Tom couldn’t be convinced.  He’d rather walk back into a classroom with his abuser than have anyone else know what had happened.  And Chris knew that any kind of legal action without Tom’s cooperation would be nearly impossible. 

 

Chris came out of the bathroom, ready to head to his own bed, when he noticed Tom sitting up under the covers, looking around the room.  His grip was tight on his blankets and more than once he glanced towards the front door.  He’d been utterly exhausted when he’d fallen asleep before, Chris realized.  And it had still been light out.    

 

Chris went to his bedroom, and came out a few minutes later with his laptop. 

 

“Hey,” he said casually.  “I was going to watch the end of the Liverpool game, but the Wi-Fi reception’s way better out here.  Do you mind?” 

 

Tom stared mutely, and shook his head. 

 

“I promise I’ll keep it down,” Chris assured him. 

 

“It’s fine,” Tom said, barely above a whisper.

 

Tom lay back in bed as Chris set up his computer on the coffee table near an outlet.  He sat down on the floor, bringing a pillow over to sit on and a spare blanket to keep out the cold.  He brought up the game, turning down the volume, and leaned against an arm of the couch.  He waited ten minutes, and then slyly checked over his shoulder. 

 

Tom was asleep, jaw slack and breathing evenly in the dim light.  Chris quietly closed his computer, stretched out on the rug, and went to sleep. 

 

 

 

 

 

Chris woke up before Tom and made breakfast, then took a shower while Tom ate.  When he got out, he noticed Tom’s plate was nearly cleared, which made him absurdly happy.  Tom used the bathroom next and Chris went to his bedroom to finish dressing.  Tom must have showered quickly, because when Chris came out again, he was leaning against the back of the couch in a towel, staring at his clothes hanging in the window. 

 

Chris approached cautiously.  The clothes hung, freshly washed and pressed, taken out of their plastic dry cleaning bags and arranged into three perfectly coordinated outfits.  Tom face was blank but his eyes tracked over each one. 

 

He lifted a hand, pointing to the one on the left.  “That was the first day.  The first time he…”  His fingers curled inward as he trailed off. His voice was hushed and indistinct, as though he were talking to himself.  Chris wondered if he even knew he was there.  He pointed to the middle.  “That was the second.  When he…caned me.” 

 

The slight emphases on that verb sent chills down Chris’s spine.  Pale scars under dark bruises flashed across his mind, and he swallowed thickly.  His eyes, seemingly of their own accord, went to the third set of clothes on the right.  _And that was three days ago, when he raped and beat you so bad you could barely walk._   Some choices. 

 

Tom stood and reached up a hand, then paused, indecisive.  He wavered between the left and the center, settling on the left.  Then he changed his mind, put it back, and picked up the one in the middle.  He turned, and went into the bathroom.  When he came out again, he looked absolutely impeccable. 

 

 

 

The drive was silent.  Tom was probably tired of Chris asking him if he’d changed his mind about going, so Chris bit his lip and kept quiet. 

 

_We turn around, we go to the police, we get a restraining order…_

_You can’t force him to do any of that,_ he reminded himself.  _You also probably shouldn’t._ Imagining the look of betrayal on Tom’s face was sometimes the only thing that stopped him from calling the cops. 

 

They pulled into the parking lot, and quickly noticed something of a commotion.  Teachers and students were crowded around something.  Chris parked, and he and Tom stepped out. 

 

Tom moved hesitantly toward the crowd, and Chris followed a few paces behind.  They could probably just head inside, but…if it was something important…

 

Then Chris caught sight of Headmaster Hopkins.  He didn’t come out for just anything.  Hopkins saw Tom approach, pressing his lips together.  Tom looked through the crowd, and stopped dead. 

 

Chris peeked over the mob of people, and saw: it was Tom’s car.  Windows were shattered, tires slashed, dents and scratches everywhere.  ‘Fag’ and ‘faggot’ were written in spray-paint, maybe half a dozen times, over the body of the car.  Chris glanced at Tom, who displayed no noticeable reaction, his face utterly still.

 

_Yeah, we wouldn’t want to make a scene,_ Chris thought sarcastically. 

 

Everyone else was slowly noticing Tom anyway, eyes sliding over as the murmuring quieted.  Hopkins gestured with his head, and Tom nodded.  They both made their way towards the school.  After a second’s hesitation, Chris followed. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guh! Someone guessed my car idea! Curses, I've become predictable, lol.


	28. In which Tom lies to Anthony Hopkins and has to face Christopher for the first time since his forays into gang rape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day back

 

 

Hopkins led Tom to his office.  Tom could feel Chris following behind, but he made no comment or acknowledgement.  When Chris stepped into the office after them, Hopkins glanced at him, then at Tom.  Tom didn’t say anything, and neither did Hopkins.  Chris closed the door, and hovered behind Tom’s right shoulder. 

 

It was not a comfortable silence. 

 

“You left your car here over the weekend,” said Hopkins quietly.  It wasn’t really a question. 

 

Tom nodded.  “Yes, I…I’m sorry, I…”

 

“That’s my fault,” Chris broke in.  “I, uh, took him in my car, and I told him I’d drive him back here, but then I…didn’t.” 

 

Tom closed his eyes.  _Brilliant._   He opened them to find Hopkins regarding him evenly. 

 

“Do you have any idea who might done this?” 

 

Tom shrugged helplessly.  Hopkins sighed. 

 

“Then I think it’s time to call the police.” 

 

_No,_ Tom thought, frantic. 

 

“I…is that really necessary?” 

 

Hopkins tilted his head. 

 

“Yes.  I would think so.”

 

“Headmaster,” Tom protested. 

 

“‘Professor’,” Hopkins replied, faintly acerbic.  “Your car was _vandalized_.”

 

Tom swallowed. 

 

“It…it was probably just a student acting out,” he said quietly. 

 

Hopkins looked at him strangely. 

 

“That was actually my guess as well.”

 

“So, surely there’s no need to involve the police,” Tom insisted.  “I don’t…I don’t want to ruin some kid’s life because of one mistake.  As far as we know, this is an isolated incident.”  _As far as you know, anyway_. 

 

Hopkins made a slight _hmph_ sound. 

 

“There’s been nothing else, then?  No…verbal, or written harassment?” 

 

“None whatsoever,” Tom said without hesitation. 

 

“And you’d prefer an internal investigation?” Hopkins prompted. 

 

Tom paused. 

 

“I’m not sure…an investigation of any sort would be beneficial.” 

 

“Really.” said Hopkins flatly. 

 

“What would be the point?  To punish the perpetrators?”  Tom made a helpless gesture.  “I don’t believe that’s going to…change anyone’s mind.” 

 

“It might deter them from _acting_ on whatever happens to be in their ‘mind’.” Hopkins countered. 

 

Tom pressed his lips together.  “I’m not convinced of that either.”

 

“So, what do you propose?” Hopkins demanded, sounding irritated.  “Do nothing?”  _Ideally, yes_ , Tom thought to himself.  “What kind of message does that send?  That we are… _tolerant_ of such actions?  That is not a stance I am willing to take.”

 

Tom glanced away, mind working, then looked back up. 

 

“Make an announcement.  Make it clear that _I_ am choosing not to pursue this, against your recommendation.  That…that I’m taking a stance of…forgiveness.  Encourage the guilty party, or parties, to come forward.”  _Ha!_   “To make amends.  If this is a cry for help, then…then we should help.  If they’re really just a bigot…then there’s not much to be done anyway.” 

 

Hopkins looked at him thoughtfully.  “Very well.  _But,_ if there are any additional incidents—“

 

“I will inform you immediately,” Tom agreed. 

 

“Alright,” Hopkins said quietly.  “I’ll call for your car to be towed, the school will cover the expense.  You’d best get to class.” 

 

Tom nodded.  “Thank you, Headmaster.” 

 

He exited, Chris trailing behind.  Alone in the hall, he put a hand over his eyes, and let out a sigh. 

 

“That…was impressive,” Chris said.  Tom looked up.  Chris looked more concerned than impressed. 

 

“You know,” Tom commented, throat strangely tight.  “I actually even believe most of that.” 

 

Chris glanced away, then peered up at Tom earnestly. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, hushed.  “I forgot about your car, I should’ve—“

 

“Don’t,” Tom interrupted.  “Worry about it.” 

 

“After the apartment, I should’ve…I just wasn’t thinking.“

 

“It’s fine.”  Tom said softly.

 

Chris fell silent, though he still looked like he wanted to apologize.  After a moment, he spoke again. 

 

“Tom, can you please tell me who’s responsible for this?” 

 

Tom’s jaw clenched, eyes shifting down the empty hallway.  “I told you—“

 

“A name,” Chris insisted. 

 

Tom was silent.  He wasn’t sure why he was reluctant.  Maybe there was a level of compartmentalization he was still trying to maintain. 

 

He looked at Chris, at his firm expression and quiet eyes. 

 

“Hemsworth,” he said lowly, barely more than a mumble.  “Christopher.” 

 

Chris nodded, almost to himself.  “Christopher Hemsworth.”  He looked at Tom.  “Come on, I’ll walk you to class.” 

 

 

 

Tom saw Chris again at lunch.  He’d packed lunches for them both that morning, and Chris came to meet him in his classroom.  They ate together, making idle conversation as Chris sat on the corner of Tom’s desk.  It almost seemed normal, and, when he thought about it, Tom realized this was probably the kind of thing Chris had imagined them doing together when he’d first started being friendly. 

 

It was…nice. 

 

Then his last class started and everything went to hell.  Christopher sat in the back, so maybe it wasn’t apparent to anyone else, but Tom was certainly aware of the daggers being glared at him.  He found his hands shaking as he fought to control his voice.  He heart beat as though it would burst out of his chest, and he kept losing focus, distracted by the hateful, menacing aura directed towards him.    

 

_You can ignore him, you’ve done it before_.  But, for some reason, it was harder now.  He wasn’t able to push things to a corner of his mind.  His worlds were collapsing in on each other, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

 

He was already packed when the bell rang, desperate to get out into the hall. 

 

“Professor!” 

 

Tom stopped dead.  _No, no, no._  

 

Christopher half jogged up to him.  “I just can’t get started on this latest assignment.  Could I maybe go over some ideas with you?” 

 

Tom eyed the students filing out.  He reached for the door.

 

“I really don’t have time right now, Mr. Hemsworth.”  Why was he making excuses?  _Just leave,_ he told himself urgently. 

 

Christopher put his hand on the door as the last student left. 

 

“It’ll just take a minute.”  His eyes flared dangerously. 

 

Tom froze, hand dropping.  He trembled, and watched helplessly as the door began to close. 

 

Suddenly, it stopped, a hand reaching around to grip the edge and pushing it back open.  Chris stood there, a strong arm bracing the door.  He looked past Christopher to Tom, a forced smile on his face. 

 

“Sorry I’m late.  You ready to go?” 

 

Tom nodded tightly and, mustering his courage, stepped through the door.  He could feel Chris and Christopher glaring murder at each other as he passed between them, and as soon as he was clear, he started walking quickly down the hall.  Chris fell into step beside him, and he let out a breath. 

 

Chris tried to speak to him once they were in his car, but Tom just shook his head, placing a hand over his mouth and staring out the window. 

 

_You’re fucking pathetic_ , he thought, tears threatening behind his eyes.  _Can’t even walk out a bloody door without help_.  _Had to be rescued, like some old silent movie heroine._

_Maybe that’s because you don’t really want to be saved,_ a dark voice hissed from the back of his mind. 

 

He shook his head, denying.  _No, I don’t want…I **don’t**_ **.**        

 

His stomach clenched as his fingers dug into the sides of his jaw.

 

_Whore._

 

 


	29. In which Chris and Christopher have a chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris does something proactive

 

 

Chris sighed, trying to mask his frustration.

 

Yesterday when they’d gotten home, he’d tried again to bring up the idea of taking some time off or informing the authorities, which had resulted in Tom shouting at him and hiding in the bathroom.  The lock on the door was actually broken, for which Chris was now supremely grateful, but after peeking in and seeing Tom sitting on the toilet and crying, he’d decided to give him some space. 

 

He should really be talking to a counselor, or even really anyone about what happened to him, but it was clearly too soon to try and push that.  The worst thing would be if he pushed Tom hard enough that Tom pushed him away.  He needed to be patient, and do what little he could. 

 

Which brought him back to now. 

 

He’d spent yesterday gathering what information he could manage on one Christopher Hemsworth, hopefully not coming off as too creepy, and was doing the same this morning.  There really wasn’t much to gather.  He wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly.  Something to help him get some kind of a read on him…but so far, he wasn’t getting much of anything.  Hemsworth was an average student, not many activities.  He had a younger brother still in primary school and an older brother no one had ever met.  His parents seemed normal.  All of the students he questioned had said pretty much the same thing.

 

“I don’t really know him.”

 

“Mostly keeps to himself.”

 

“Seems nice, though.”

 

“Doesn’t talk much.”

 

“Sort of quiet.”

 

“Not that involved in anything.”

 

“But, seems nice, though.”

 

“Seems nice.” 

 

Chris sighed again as the latest batch of teenagers wandered away.    

 

“Excuse me, were you just asking about Chris Hemsworth?” 

 

He looked over his shoulder and found one of his students eyeing him timidly. 

 

“Sorry,” she went on.  “I didn’t mean to pry…”

 

“No, it’s fine,” he assured her quickly, waving her over.  “Do you know him?  I noticed he wasn’t in any sports, which seemed a little funny given his build.  He involved in something outside of school?”  That’d been the line he’d been using, lame as it was.

 

Her brow furrowed.  “I don’t think so.  He…tends to keep to himself.”

 

“Oh?” Chris said, hoping she’d follow up.  For once, he wasn’t disappointed. 

 

“We went out a couple of times.”  His brows rose a little, but he managed to keep his face mostly impassive.  “He…” she trailed off. 

 

“Yes?” Chris encouraged softly. 

 

She pressed her lips together.  “I mean…he’s nice.  Sort of.  He—” she broke off, biting her lip.  “He can get a little…scary, sometimes.”  She glanced away, hugging her books a little closer to her chest. 

 

“What do you mean?” Chris asked gently. 

 

She shrugged.  “Just…I dunno.  It’s hard to explain.  We just went out a couple of times,” she added hurriedly. 

 

Chris nodded.  “Okay.  Thanks for telling me.”  She smiled a little, ducking her head.  “Hey, Natalie,” he said as she started to leave.  “If you ever need to talk about anything…” 

 

She smiled a little wider.  “Thanks Mr. Evans.  I’m okay.”

 

“Okay,” he replied.   

 

She left, and Chris checked the clock, determination settling in his chest.  There was still a little time before next period.

 

He tracked down Christopher in the hall outside his next class. 

 

“Mr. Hemsworth.  Could I talk to you second?”  He crossed his arms over his chest. 

 

Christopher had his bag slung over on shoulder, and glanced behind him. 

 

“I have class soon,” he said worriedly. 

 

“It’ll just take a minute,” Chris said flatly.  “I’ll write you a note.”

 

Christopher bit his lip, then shrugged.  “Yeah, alright.” 

 

Chris led him to a secluded hallway, empty, but with classrooms not too far off. 

 

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Christopher asked casually. 

 

Chris eyed him firmly, and spoke.  “I want you to back off.” 

 

Christopher’s brow furrowed.  “I’m…not sure what you mean,” he said, almost pouting in confusion. 

 

“Drop it,” Chris said curtly.  “Let’s not pretend we don’t know what’s going on here.”

 

Christopher studied him a moment, and then, not quite all at once, he shifted.  He seemed to draw himself up, making him even taller, and the air around him almost crackled with new, disquieting, energy. 

 

_There you are._

Christopher smirked at him.  “Have you tried his mouth yet?” he drawled.  “I know he’s got a sweet arse, but if you haven’t fucked that mouth, believe me, you’re missing out.” 

 

Chris’s eyes hardened, but he didn’t take the bait.

 

“I gonna tell you this once.  Leave him alone.  I’m serious.  This is the only warning you’re gonna get.” 

 

Christopher laughed. 

 

“And what are you gonna do if I don’t?” 

 

“I will go to the authorities, and I will take you down.” 

 

Christopher laughed again. 

 

“Right.  I’m sure I’ll get put away for a long, long time for fucking my teacher.  Like I have anything to worry about.” 

 

Chris tilted his head.  “You really believe that?”  Christopher’s eyes hardened, clearly not appreciating Chris’s condescending tone.  “You really think anyone with a half a brain is going to look at what you did to him, and think _you’re_ the victim?” 

 

Christopher’s face suddenly softened, a pained look pouring from his eyes.

 

“He...he made me,” he warbled.  “I…didn’t know how to turn him down, he’s my teacher, and he…he’s _sick_ , he made me do all sorts of horrible things.”  His lip started quirk.  “He used to make me—”

 

Chris cut him off. 

 

“Sure, you go ahead.  Give your little show.  Then, he can go up, and show ’em the real thing.  And everyone’s going to see, that you.  Are full.  Of shit.”   Christopher’s smile fell.  Chris smirked.  “See, you fucked up.  You picked on someone that everyone’s going to like a _whole_ lot better than you.  Now, I’d prefer,” Chris started, exaggeratedly.  “Not to put him through that, so I’m giving you one last shot.  Back.  The hell.  Off.” 

 

They stared each other down, but Christopher was already looking wary, the confidence from only a few seconds ago becoming muted.

 

Chris waited to see if he’d say anything else.  When he didn’t, Chris silently pulled his cell from his pocket, and held it up for Christopher to see.  There was a recording app running plainly across the screen. 

 

Christopher’s eyes went dark, face twisting with fury.   Chris readied himself, prepared for an assault, or at least a grab for his phone. 

 

Instead, Christopher just glared at him, pulled his backpack further up his shoulder, and stalked away. 

 

Chris let out a breath, and hit save, and sent the recording to his e-mail.  Then, he clicked his phone off, put it back in his pocket, and walked on.  He had a free period, so he took a few minutes to check in on Tom, peeking through the window in the door. 

 

Tom was gesticulating, talking animatedly about something Chris couldn’t hear.  There was something almost like a smile on his face.  Chris found himself smiling as well, then turned and went on his way. 

 


	30. In which Tom hears from an old friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking. A...lot of talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some self-destructive and vaguely suicidal thoughts/reactions in this one.

 

 

Tom sat in the stands, shivering slightly in the cold as he graded papers.  Chris had practice today, so Tom was waiting for him till they could go home.  He was sure it looked strange, but he honestly couldn’t be bothered to care. 

 

Chris was just finishing up, making his way over, when Tom got a call on his mobile. 

 

“Everything okay?” Chris asked, as Tom ended the call. 

 

Tom looked at the phone in his hand, then up at Chris. 

 

“The clinic,” he said, sounding muffled in the winter air.  “My results are in.” 

 

Chris nodded simply, and Tom packed up his things. 

 

Chris drove him straight there, hardly a word spoken between them.  Tom was again taken into a back room.  The same young woman from before came in less than a minute later.  Tom felt…not numb, exactly.  He wasn’t worried, or anxious.  He was pretty sure he didn’t remotely care what she had to say.   

 

“So,” she said, sitting and shuffling some papers.  “I have your results here, and—everything looks good.  You’re clean.”  She gave a small smile. 

 

Tom blinked. 

 

“…What?” 

 

She gave him a reserved, but encouraging look.  “We do recommend you come back in a month or so, just to be sure, but based on this…everything’s come back negative.  I’d say you’ve nothing to worry about.”  Another smile. 

 

Slowly, Tom felt himself start to shake his head.

 

“Th…that’s,” he stumbled, voice hushed.  “That’s _impossible_.”  Her face fell slightly.

 

Tom’s lips were shaking and his chest felt tight.  He shook his head over and over and over. 

 

“That can’t—I—there—” he was gasping, hardly able to speak.  He closed his eyes, and tears rolled down his cheeks.  He sobbed, bending forward over his knees to bury his face in his hands. 

 

“Shh,” the woman soothed softly. “It’s alright.  You’re alright.” 

 

She placed a hand at the back his head, and another between his shoulder blades, rubbing light, even motions over his back.  It was oddly comforting despite—or perhaps, because of—the soreness that was still there. 

 

_Stop it,_ he thought wildly.  _Stop being kind._ But he didn’t have the strength, or the courage to pull away.  _You don’t understand._  

 

_Lying whore.  You’re nothing but a lying whore._

He let her lay his head in her lap, and wept. 

 

 

 

Tom wondered what he must have looked like when he came out, because Chris didn’t even begin to ask about anything till they were back in the car. 

 

“So…” Chris started hesitantly, clearly indecisive about whether he should be asking at all.  Tom saved him the trouble. 

 

“I’m fine,” he said brusquely, half tossing his results toward Chris.  “Everything came back negative.” 

 

“That…that’s great!” Chris said after a second’s pause, somewhat startled. 

 

Tom nodded silently, and turned to stare out the window. 

 

A minute later, the engine started, and they pulled out. 

 

 

 

 

 

Chris drove him to school every morning, ate lunch with him every day, and cooked or otherwise provided dinner every evening.  Tom would wait for him in the stands on days he had practice, which was most days, so Chris could drive him home.  He really should have been working on getting his car repaired, but the thought of walking into a shop or calling his insurance left him painfully embarrassed. 

 

Class was…better.  He wasn’t sure why, but Christopher seemed intent to ignore him.  He barely even looked at him in class anymore, which suited Tom just fine.  He’d stopped turning in assignments, and Tom dutifully recorded his incompletes and did nothing else about it.  He made no attempt to approach Tom, even when there was a hint of opportunity, which Tom took care to minimize.  There had been some…shift, and Tom no longer felt the immediate threat of danger from him.  He started contemplating taking the bus back to Chris’s on days when Chris had practice, the idea less utterly terrifying than it had been just some days ago.   

 

The Thursday before half term, he got a call.

 

“Ken?” he answered, surprised. 

 

“Tom!” said a familiar voice on the line.  Tom shook his head.

 

“I…sorry, I’m a little surprised to hear from you.”

 

A deep sigh.  “Yes, I know, I’ve been an absolute arse.  I even missed your birthday!  This lecture tour has been murder, I’ve barely had a minute to catch my breath.  I’ve got another scheduled for tomorrow, but I finally had a bit of a break and…well, you don’t give a shite about any of that.  I’ve called to beg your forgiveness, and check in with my very favorite protégé.” 

 

Tom found himself smiling in spite of himself, the familiar rhythms and tones of Kenneth’s voice washing over him. 

 

“I’ve hardly been more attentive,” he murmured.

 

“Oh, pish tosh, you’re young, you’re supposed to get caught up in your own life.  So, how has your first year been going?  Is it everything you dreamed it would be?  Expanded any young minds yet?” he asked in a tone that, for Kenneth, was only slightly sarcastic. 

 

Tom smile wobbled, and he felt his throat tighten. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s been good.  It’s…” he bit his lip, and something seemed to crash inside him.  “I really fucked up,” he whispered, choking back tears. 

 

“Tom?” Kenneth questioned, full of concern. 

 

“Sorry,” Tom said quickly.  “I…it’s been a long…couple of days.  I actually really have to run.  Thank you for calling, it’s so good to hear from you.  I’ll give you a ring soon and we’ll talk.  Bye.” 

 

He hung up, and virtually threw his mobile away from him onto the sofa bed, covering his mouth with one hand. 

 

_Shite_. 

 

“Everything alright?” Chris asked, coming in from the bathroom. 

 

Tom glanced up.  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, managing not to sound too shaken.  Chris looked worried, but didn’t press.  “I actually wanted to talk to you about something,” Tom went on, turning, his voice steadying with every word.

 

Chris looked at him, the picture of attentiveness.  Tom took a breath. 

 

 

 

 

 

“Now, you’re sure about this?”  Chris asked him for the thousandth time, and Tom was actually starting to find it more endearing than irritating. 

 

His lip quirked, and he nodded firmly.  “Yes.  No offense, but I’m actually getting a bit tired of sitting in the cold while you try and get a bunch of teenagers not to be utterly horrid at football.”

 

Chris sighed, but also chuckled.  “Okay, okay.  But, you could take my car, and I could take the bus.”

 

Tom raised an eyebrow.  “With all your equipment?  Right, that makes sense.”

 

“It…wouldn’t be that…” he sighed again, trailing off.  “Or, you could wait for me inside?”

 

Tom had actually thought of that, but the idea of doing busy work in any of the empty halls, offices or classrooms or…anywhere—he shuddered.

 

“I’d rather just go…back to your place,” he said quietly. 

 

Chris nodded after a moment.  “Okay.  Just…let me know if you change your mind, or if you need anything, or—”

 

“I will,” Tom broke in softly. 

 

Chris nodded again, sighing.  “It’s the last day before break, so I’ll probably let them go early.  I don’t know why I’m making them meet at all, I just…maybe I should cancel, they probably—”

 

“Chris,” Tom said firmly.  “Go do your job.  I can take a ten-minute bus ride.  I’ll be fine.” 

 

Chris pressed his lips together, then sort of deflated.  “Okay.  I’ll shut up.  This is me, shutting up.”  He gestured solidly with both hands. 

 

Tom smirked, and made a slight nod. 

 

Mouth purposefully shut, Chris started walking backwards toward the field, turning to walk away after a few paces. 

 

Tom shook his head slightly, and turned to make his own way over toward the bus.  It wasn’t far, within eye distance actually, just across the guest parking. 

 

He stopped suddenly, catching sight of a familiar figure leaning against the side of a car.  After a moment, he resumed his movement, veering slightly to his new destination. 

 

“Kenneth?” he said, bewildered.  “What are you doing here?”

 

The man smiled easily.  “I came to see you, obviously.  Why else would I be here?”  He glanced around the grounds with teasing distain. 

 

“But…I thought you said you had a lecture today?”

 

He shrugged.  “I cancelled it.”

 

“ _What?”_ Tom shook his head.  “Why?” 

 

Kenneth’s expression sobered. 

 

“You didn’t really expect me not to come.  Did you?  After that phone call.”  

 

Tom dropped his head, staring at his shoes. 

 

“You…you really didn’t have to…I was just…stressed, is all, nothing—”

 

“Tom.”  Kenneth cut in, and Tom lifted his eyes.  Everything—Ken’s voice, his stance, his expression—said one thing: _this is me_.  Ken had seen him stressed, seen his bad days, his busy days, his…everything days. 

 

Tom’s grip on his briefcase tightened.  He glanced away. 

 

“I can’t talk here,” he said quietly.

 

Ken nodded slightly, then gestured toward his car.  “Come back to my hotel?” 

 

After a moment, Tom nodded.

 

 

 

Kenneth let them in to his utterly typical hotel room, offering to hang Tom’s jacket along with his own.  Tom acquiesced, a little reluctantly, and looked over the bland furniture. 

 

The ride over had been awkward, to say the least.  Ken had done his best to make idle chatter, but Tom had been completely unhelpful in that regard.  Now, he’d left his briefcase in the car, and was left to fidget with his empty hands. 

 

“Tom?”

 

Tom snapped back to attention to find Kenneth sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap.  He looked over at Tom with sober concern.  He’d probably said something that Tom was meant to respond to. 

 

Suddenly, like a knife ripping him open down the middle, something fiery and dark stabbed through him. 

 

Eyes hot and hard, he went to Kenneth and pushed open his knees. 

 

“Let me suck you,” he breathed into Ken’s neck.

 

“What?” Kenneth said, sounding startled.  Tom dug his fingers into Ken’s thighs. 

 

“Come on,” he urged, pulling back and licking suggestively over his lips.  “You must’ve missed this mouth.”  He sank to his knees. 

 

“Hang on,” Ken protested.  “Tom, I didn’t come here to—”

 

“But why not?” Tom cut him off.  He gazed up at him, his words smoldering.  “You know how good I can make it.”  He reached for Ken’s belt. 

 

Ken went to grab Tom’s hands with his own, but Tom dodged them. 

 

“Just wait a minute,” Kenneth said, more urgent now. 

 

Tom got hold of the buckle, and yanked, glancing up at Kenneth as his heart beat hard in his chest.

 

“If I disappoint you, you can spank me after,” Tom promised, leather cutting into his palm.

 

“Tom, _STOP!”_ Kenneth demanded, and finally got hold of Tom’s wrists. 

 

Tom went still, eyes unfocussed and heart hammering against his ribs.  Slowly, gradually, he shifted back on his heels and broke from Ken’s grasp.  He stood up, took a few steps back, and turned away.  He hugged his arms across his chest, one hand lifting to form a fist in front of his mouth.  He blinked back tears. 

 

He could hear Kenneth shuffling behind him, but didn’t dare look.  An agonizing silence settled. 

 

“Why…why don’t I order some room service, hm?”  Kenneth said after a bit, standing and moving to the phone.  Tom watched him from the corner of his eye as he flipped through a menu.  “Ah!” he said after a minute, tapping at something on the page in front of him.  “They have mushroom ravioli!”  He looked over at Tom hopefully. 

 

Tom turned away. 

 

A moment later, Kenneth was ordering.  He hung up the phone with a firm _clang._

 

“And, how ‘bout some tea, while we wait?”  He was already moving to make it, glancing furtively back at Tom. 

 

Tom avoided his gaze, and continuing to stand in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. 

 

Soon, the tea was ready, and Kenneth placed two cups on the table near the window.  After a moment, Tom went to sit in the second chair.  Kenneth pushed a biscuit across toward him.  Tom kept his eyes fixed on his cup, stirring the tea over and over again without ever taking a sip.  Several times, he sensed Kenneth about to break the silence, mouth working wordlessly or a hand jerking in some half-aborted gesture. 

 

When a knock on the door announced the arrival of their ordedr, Ken practically jumped out of his chair. 

 

Two plates were set on the table, metal covers removed and set aside.  Tom heard the door click, and then they were alone in the room again.  He picked up a fork and poked half-heartedly at a ravioli. 

 

Half-heartedly was probably a generous description.  He stabbed at that same ravioli for a good five minutes before giving up and dropping his fork. 

 

He got up, and went to sit on the bed, staring down unseeing at his fingernails. 

 

He heard a clatter as Kenneth replaced the covers, and then he was sitting beside him, one hand hovering over his shoulder as though he were afraid to touch him. 

 

_You should be,_ Tom thought to himself.  _You shouldn’t touch me._  

 

“Tom,” Kenneth started, quiet.  “What’s going on?” 

 

Tom bit the inside of his lip, scratching at his cuticles.  He mouth worked, lips closed, his brow furrowed.  Then he sniffed, and spoke. 

 

“I fucked a student.”  His teeth were clenched, but as he slid his eyes over he knew he’d been understood. 

 

Kenneth blinked, mouth falling slightly open.  “H...how did this happen?” he asked, fingers brushing the back of Tom’s shoulder blade. 

 

Tom looked away, and shrugged.  “Oh, you know.  He stayed after class to ask some questions, and we both ended up coming all over my trousers.”  His voice sounded tight and forced, even to his ears. 

 

“Tom,” Ken gently chastised.  He placed his hand flat against Tom’s shoulder.  “Talk to me.  Please.” 

 

Tom lifted his eyes, and looked at Kenneth.  There’d been so many concerned faces in his life lately, it seemed.  Chris, of course.  The woman at the clinic.  After the incident with his car, there’d been several at work as well.  Even Hopkins had given his version of compassion.  Then, there’d been his sister at Christmas.  Tilda.      

 

But this…this was _Kenneth_. 

 

So, he told him. 

 

Not…everything, but he tried to explain.  About that first day.  About the days after.  How things had gotten worse, and then worse, and then worse. 

 

“…And now, it’s just,” he sighed helplessly, voice full of tears.  Ken had handed him some tissues, now clutched pathetically in his fingers.  “My car’s wrecked.  I’m paying rent on a house I’m afraid to go back to.  I’m terrified someone’s going to find out and…God, it’s all just such a mess.”  He sounded pitiful. 

 

He blew his nose.

 

Ken’s hand was still on his shoulder.  He hadn’t said much. 

 

“But…” Ken started, hesitant.  “But you’re not…you’re away from him now.  You’re not still with him.”  They weren’t quite questions.  Tom shook his head anyway. 

 

“No, I…I mean, it’s been a week since anything’s…happened.” 

 

“A week,” Ken said flatly. 

 

Tom sort of shrugged.  “I don’t…I don’t think…” he trailed off.  “I’m not going back,” he said, just above a whisper.

 

Kenneth nodded.  “And…you have a place to stay?”  More of a question this time. 

 

Tom nodded.  “Yes.  A…a friend.” 

 

“A friend,” Ken repeated quietly.  “And they’ve been…taking care of you?”

 

Tom smiled a little wryly.  “Yeah.  Yeah, he’s been…really great, actually.”  He let out a little chuckle.  “He’s new, this semester.  Wanted us to be friends.” He snorted.  “Bet he’s regretting that now.” 

 

Ken didn’t say anything.   

 

Tom looked back down at his hands, head shaking in a kind of disgust. 

 

“God, you must be so disappointed in me,” he said, biting. 

 

“What?” Ken said, hushed and incredulous.  “Of course not.”  Tom just shook his head, lips trembling.  “Tom, this was _done_ to you.  You can’t possibly think you’re at fault.” 

 

Tom laughed, dry and bitter.  “Right.  So, we should just lay the responsibility squarely on the shoulders of the _teenager_ I was _teaching_.” 

 

“Yes.” Ken said, without pause. 

 

Tom turned to him, mouth gaping.  _“_ He’s _seventeen_.” 

 

“I _don’t care._ ”  Ken was looking at him, eyes firm, mouth set.  He looked so, so sure.

 

Tom sighed, closing his eyes as he dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head. 

 

“I’m not blameless,” he murmured. 

 

“ _Tom.”_

 

“I’m not,” he said, looking back up to Kenneth.  “I—” he cut off, unable to go on.  He looked back at his hands.  “I mean, it’s not as if…that is, it…I do like a bit of…” He kept starting and stopping, speaking in bursts that went nowhere.  He tilted his head, and looked at Kenneth.  He spoke mockingly even with tears in his eyes.  “‘Oh, Professor, I’ve been such a bad boy’—“ 

 

“That’s different,” Ken said quietly, eyes pleading.  He shook his head, a hand squeezing Tom’s shoulder.  “You should never be…afraid.”         

 

Tom blinked back tears, and looked away again.  He’d forgotten what it was like, not to be afraid.  Surely, there had been a time, when…hadn’t there?  It seemed so long ago, and like it was a life that belonged to someone else, someone he’d once known very well, but now was more like a stranger.     

 

“There were times,” he said, low but even.  “I thought he might kill me.”  His next words were much less steady.  “There were times I… _w-wanted_ him to.”  He felt Ken’s reaction, but he couldn’t pause, caught up, suddenly _needing_ to speak. 

 

“I went to a clinic, to get…to get tested.”  He snorted.  “W…we weren’t exactly… _safe.”_   He caught a glimpse of Ken’s concerned face.  “I’m fine.  It’s…everything came back negative, I’m…I’m fine.”  He tossed his hands a bit, unable to hide the incredulity in his voice.  “When…the nurse, or whatever, told me,” he said quietly, tearing a bit the tissue in his hands.  “I cried.” 

 

Kenneth’s hand rubbed lightly over his back, leaning in.  “You…were relieved.” 

 

Tom’s mouth twisted into a sour smile.  He turned his eyes to meet Ken’s, almost apologetic.  “I was _disappointed_.”  Kenneth blinked, and Tom rushed to explain.  “It just seemed so impossible that I…I could come through this and not—It was _wrong._   There _should_ be some…I _should_ be… _infected_ , I…I _feel—_ ” He cut off, half-sobbing.  “ _And_ ,” he went on, miserable.  “Sh-sh-she told me I was _clean?_   When I… _I_ …”  He broke down, gasping, crying without tears.  

 

“Tom, Tom,” Kenneth said, softly urgent as he took Tom by both shoulders and turned him to face him. “What you’re feeling…it’s normal.  And…and it’s all right.  To feel that way, now.  But you must remind yourself that…that’s it’s not… _accurate._   How you feel right now, is not how things are.”  He looked into Tom’s eyes, face earnest.  “And it _will_ change.  You will not always feel this way.  You…you must remember that,” his voice cracked, just slightly and Tom raised his eyes to his face.  “And, not do anything…rash.  Mm?”  He sent Tom a shaky, encouraging smile.  “Promise me,” he urged, eyes shining. 

 

Tom smiled, sad and affectionate. 

 

“I don’t want to die,” he assured him, staring into Ken’s eyes.  Then he looked away.  “I’m just not sure…” He gave up halfway through the sentence, sighing.  A sharp breath in, and a fresh wave a tears started to form.  He looked up towards the ceiling, and shook his head.  _“_ God _,_ how did I let get this bad?” he muttered, almost to himself.  “How did it ever get…” he squeezed his eyes shut, fists clenching.  “I’m just

so _stupid_ , I’m so, _so_ _stupid_ ,” he spat out, snarling.  His voice rising, drowned in tears. 

 

“Shh, shh,” Kenneth soothed, pulling him to his chest and wrapping his arms around him.  “No, you’re not that, never that,” he murmured, cheek pressed into the curls of Tom’s hair as he rocked him gently back and forth.  “You are one of the brightest people I have ever known.  This won’t put you out, I know that.” 

 

A burst of laughter tore out of Tom, making him sniffle against his tears.  He glanced up at Ken with a tight smile, wiping his face. 

 

“Always such a poet,” he mocked warmly. 

 

“Of course,” Ken easily agreed, matching his tone. 

 

As Tom gazed up into Kenneth’s face, his smile started to fade, and he burrowed back into his chest, blinking out at nothing. 

 

“It’s just like…everything’s been ruined,” he said, withdrawn and indistinct.  “Things I used to like.  Teaching, Shakespeare, sex.  Christmas.” He snorted, pulling idly at his sleeve.  “Even my clothes.  It’s all…tainted.” 

 

Kenneth was silent a while, rubbing up and down Tom’s arm. 

 

“Well,” he said eventually.  “I would say that, you should certainly try to keep as much as you can.  Don’t let him take things from you, fight for them.  But…” he hesitated.  “It…it’s also alright, a good idea even, to…break away for a bit.  It needn’t be forever.  And…you can find other things to love.”

 

There was a long pause.  Slowly, Tom pulled away.  He looked at Kenneth. 

 

“I’m not giving up teaching.” 

 

Ken swallowed.  “That’s…I didn’t mean that, not…just…everything, you…you shouldn’t feel trapped.  Or…or as though you _have_ to do anything.  You can take as much time as you need, and it’s alright if you’re not comfortable right now, if things…things aren’t as easy as they used to be.  It’s alright to go easy.  You don’t need to push yourself.  You can just…take a break.” 

 

Tom glanced down, biting inside his lip, and nodded.  He turned his head to the side, staring at the floor. 

 

“Well,” he said after a moment, partially in an attempt to lighten the mood.  “I think I’ll certainly be taking a break from sex for a while.” 

 

It didn’t work.  Ken’s face grew even more sober, and he looked away. 

 

_Damn it._   He’d almost forgotten about his…earlier…God, what should he even call it?  Lapse?  Insanity? 

 

“Go ahead,” he said quietly after a moment.  Ken turned to look at him, brow furrowed.  “Ask.” 

 

Kenneth glanced down.  Then back up.  “What…” he started, then trailed of, awkward.  “I mean, why would you…?” 

 

Tom didn’t make him finish.

 

“I don’t know,” he said, simply.  “I…” his throat closed.  “I would…do things, with him.  It…to keep him happy, or distracted, or just…to make it easier to…” He rubbed a hand over his face.  He wasn’t explaining this well.  “And, it’s like…a part of me still wants it.”  He grimaced.  That was wrong.  “Or…needs it.  Something…will happen, or I’ll just feel…I don’t know.  Lost, or nervous, or…” _Guilty_ “And suddenly there’s this voice in my head saying— _hurt me, fuck me, use me_ , and…” he let out a shuddering breath, rubbing over the palm of one hand with his thumb.

 

He still felt it now, actually.  A strong, pulsing urge to throw himself at Kenneth, to debase himself, to beg for something he knew would only bring him pain and piercing shame.  Images and sensations swam through his mind, and along with them a burning need that had nothing to do with arousal but that felt oh so very similar. 

 

_You could beat my arse bloody and then fuck me dry, did you know that?_ He looked at Kenneth, full of a fiercesome fear and anger that was only directed at himself.  _Let me show you what a whore I’ve become_ , a part of him whispered traitorously.  _Let him see.  Let them all see._        

 

Ken was watching him, and it seemed he did see something, because his eyes shifted.  He toed off his shoes, and leaned back against the pillows. 

 

“Come here,” he said quietly, opening his arms.  “Just…lie down with me, nothing else.” 

 

Tom felt stiff, but, after a minute, he took off his shoes and curled up against Kenneth.  He rested his head in the crook of Ken’s shoulder, laying an arm across his chest, as Ken’s arm wrapped around him.

 

“Now, cry.” 

 

Tom burst out laughing, though it sounded more like a sob.  “What?”

 

“Just, cry for a while.” 

 

Tom rolled his eyes.  “I feel like I’ve been crying for months.” 

 

“Yes, well, there’s not actually a quota on that type of thing,” Kenneth said reasonably.  “You’re not going to be fined if you go over your daily allotment.” 

 

Tom let out another pained little laugh, and shook his head against Ken’s shirt. 

 

“You shouldn’t be so nice me,” he whispered tightly. 

 

Ken squeezed his arm.  “Of course I should.”

 

Tom just shook his head some more.  “No, you…I didn’t tell you everything.”  His lips trembled.  “You…you don’t know what I’ve done.”  

 

“I don’t need to.” 

 

Tom right hand fisted in Ken’s shirt, and he glared out into the room.  “You…you can’t _know_ that.”

 

“Yes, I can,” Ken said simply.  He took his free hand, and lifted Tom’s chin.  He looked in his eyes.  “If you want to tell me anything, I will listen.  But it won’t make me think less of you.  I know who you are, and none of this changes that.” 

 

Tom looked up at him, feeling Kenneth’s words, his voice, the light of his face, wash over him like a cool breeze, breathing in what felt like the first fresh air he’d tasted in a lifetime.

 

His face crumpled, eyes closing, and he sobbed, broken and rasping into the room.  Tears poured out of him like rain, and he pressed his face into Kenneth, soaking his shirt as he cried and cried and cried. 

 

Kenneth cradled his head in one hand and rubbed up and down his arm with the other. 

 

“There, there, that’s alright.  It’s all right.  That’s it.  There we are, now.  You’re going to be alright.” 

 

And for just a second, one single second, Tom believed him.     

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a longish one, and it also just took me a while to get all the pieces together, so there might not be quite so rapid updates forthcoming. I'm working on the next chapter now, but I don't have any more chapters completed. Also, I'm sort of now actively working on another fic at the same time (god help me. What was I thinking?) Anyway, I just to let you guys know so you're up to speed. I am still very committed to this story, it just might not be daily updates for a while.


	31. In which Kenneth reflects and he and Tom have a disagreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Tom and Ken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be some warnings for this one...though I'm not quite sure what for. Nothing explicit, but...I dunno.

 

 

Kenneth watched Tom as he slept.  He’d eventually fallen into unconsciousness still tucked into the crook of Ken’s shoulder, his fingers loosely gripping Ken’s shirt.  He pressed tightly against his side, but his face and breathing appeared otherwise peaceful. 

 

_I’m so sorry.  I should have been here, I should have…_

He wasn’t quite sure what he could have done, but one thing was quite certain.  All the times over the past months when he’d told himself that Tom was no doubt too busy for him as well, and in any case wouldn’t want to be crowded by his doddering old ex-lover, now seemed painfully thoughtless and self-centered.  ‘ _He’ll call me if he needs anything, otherwise best stay out of his way’._ What an utter crock of shite.   

 

_This should never have happened to you_.

 

What Tom had described should never be inflicted on anyone, of course, Kenneth knew that.  But, he couldn’t be blamed, could he,  If he felt an extra twinge of ire and resentment that it had been Tom, _his Tom_ , who had suffered this?  When he’d said Tom should never be afraid, he’d meant it, in more ways than one.  _Tom_ , of all people, should never, ever be afraid.  It didn’t suit him, never had.  Tom, who embraced life with such fearless love and enthusiasm.  Tom, who should never suffer _anything_ , who deserved to have the world and all its riches laid out before him to do with as he liked. 

 

Ken was angry.  It was a low, boiling, fuming rage, and he could feel it clenching inside his chest.  It was disquieting, in a way.  He couldn’t recall having ever felt this kind of dark crushing fury, so at odds with the calm of the man resting gently in his arms, and the tenderness with which he held him.                

 

Kenneth loved Tom.  Oh, he knew their time as lovers had passed.  They had both sensed when it was time to move on.  But that didn’t mean _their_ time was over, that they needed to disappear from each other’s lives.  The love he had for Tom wasn’t _as_ anything.  He didn’t love him as a lover, or friend, as his teacher or mentor or some kind of father figure, or anything like that.  He had a love for Tom that was wholly, and uniquely Tom’s.  There would always be that particular piece of his heart that would belong solely to him.  He could feel it, burning, as strong as it had ever been, that love. 

 

_I’m here.  I’m here now_ , he thought, and pressed his lips to the top of Tom’s head.  He closed his eyes, and inhaled, breathing out the tears that clung inside his throat.   

 

 

 

 

 

Tom woke to the faint, familiar sound of his phone going off.  He glanced up, and found Kenneth snoring lightly, leaned back against the pillows.  Carefully, he extricated himself, padding over in his socks to pull his mobile from his jacket pocket. 

 

He checked the caller id, and quickly ducked into the washroom, pulling the door closed and flicking the light as he answered.  He pressed the phone to his ear. 

 

“Chris,” he greeted, keeping his voice down.

 

“Tom!” Tom closed his eyes at Chris’s agitation.  “You picked up!”

 

“Yes, I…I’m sorry if I missed any calls…”

 

“No, this is the first time I…I just got home and…you’re okay?”

 

“Yes,” Tom answered quickly.  “I…I’m sorry, I should have called.  An old friend came to town unexpectedly, we’ve been talking and…lost track of time.” 

 

There was a pause.

 

“Okay,” said Chris warily.  Then, after a moment.  “You’re sure you’re alright?”

 

“Yes,” Tom said firmly.  “I’m fine.”

 

“Okay,” Chris said again.  “Do you need me to pick you up, or—”

 

“No, no,” Tom said, glancing at the door.  “I think I’ll stay here.” 

 

Another pause.

 

“Tom, are you sure everything’s alright?” 

 

Tom smiled, lips closed.  “Yes.  Really.  Everything’s fine.” 

 

“Okay, well…where are you?  If I need to find you,” Chris added, failing to sound casual. 

 

“Um,” Tom looked around, finding something with a logo on.  “I’m at the Rodney Hotel.  You should be able to ask for Kenneth Branagh’s room.”

 

“Okay,” Chris said, and Tom heard the scratching of pen or pencil on paper.  “‘Branagh’, how you spell that?” 

 

“B R A N A G H.” 

 

“Okay,” Chris said.  “Got it.” 

 

Tom pressed his lips together. 

 

“I really am sorry, Chris.  I should have called.”

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it.  Thanks for picking up.”  Tom nodded, though he knew Chris couldn’t see.  “Just, um,” Chris paused.  “If you could always…pick up?”  

 

Tom smiled again.  “Of course.” 

 

“Okay, then, so I’ll see you…” he trailed off.

 

“Tomorrow, probably,” Tom said quietly. 

 

“Okay.  I’ll see you then.  Bye.”

 

“Bye.”  He ended the call, looking down at the phone in his hand for a moment before tip-toeing out of the washroom.

 

“Were you talking to someone?”  Kenneth was watching him from the bed.  Tom looked up, startled, then glanced down at the phone still in his hand.

 

“Yeah.  Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

Ken made a dismissive gesture. 

 

“So, who was it?” Ken asked, rolling his shoulders.

 

“Chris.  Um,” Tom gestured awkwardly.  “The…friend I’m staying with.  Checking up on me.” He gave a little laugh.  “He…doesn’t usually leave me on my own this long.” 

 

Kenneth nodded, yawning, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

 

“I…told him I’d stay here tonight,” Tom went on.  “If that’s alright.” 

 

“Of course,” Ken replied.  “I can drive you…wherever, in the morning.” 

 

“Thanks.” 

 

Tom let out a sigh, and slipped his phone back in his jacket pocket. 

 

“So,” Kenneth commented, gesturing over his shoulder.  “You think any of our meal is still salvageable, or should we just let it die in peace?” 

 

Tom laughed, but Ken had already moved to the table, peeking dubiously under one of the metal covers. 

 

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Ken asked, picking up a soggy carrot and nibbling at it. 

 

Tom shrugged.  “It’s half term, so I’ve got a week to prepare, and I’m…not exactly behind.” Tom thought ruefully of how very _not_ behind he was, having spent every spare moment working. 

 

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Ken said, chewing.  “Give you some time…” he trailed off, somewhat awkwardly.

 

Tom glanced down.  “I…I actually…” he sighed.  “It’s nice to have something to _do_.  To think about, other than…” _What a complete disaster my life is._

 

“Mm.” Ken looked at him.  “That…makes sense, I suppose.  And it’s good to keep busy.  I’m sure you’ll find things to fill your time.” Tom looked down, dubious.  “Although…” Ken sighed, very quietly.  “Tom, this…this does need to be…thought about.”

 

Tom clenched his jaw, and nodded stiffly.  Tears didn’t quite spring to his eyes. 

 

“I know,” he said.

 

“You don’t…fix a broken leg by ignoring it and pretending you can still walk normally,” Ken went on.

 

“I don’t have a broken leg,” Tom said sharply. 

 

“I…” Ken went quiet.

 

Tom closed his eyes, feeling badly.  He really needed to stop snapping at people who were being perfectly nice to him, it made him feel like crap.    

 

“It…will be nice to have some time off, some time away,” he said, trying to be agreeable, half trying to convince himself.  “I…I’ll be able to…to…” He trailed off, striving to think of something.  “To get some things together,” he said finally, utterly vague.  “Maybe…do some shopping, or…” He trailed off again.  “And,” he spoke again with sudden inspiration.  “I won’t have to…to see him for a whole week, that…that’s something.”  He tried to smile encouragingly. 

 

Ken’s eyes narrowed.  “‘Him’?” 

 

Tom blinked.  “Well, ‘cause I won’t be in class, I won’t…won’t see him.” 

 

Kenneth put down whatever bit of vegetable he’d been fiddling with, wiping his hands on a napkin. 

 

“I’m sorry, I might not be understanding.  Are you saying that the…the individual we’ve been discussing, is still in your class?”

 

Tom was silent.  His mouth fell open slightly, and he shrugged. 

 

“You can’t be serious,” Ken said flatly, almost rasping.  “You _can’t_ be—” He took a deep breath, visibly calming himself. 

 

“Ken,” Tom said, placating.  “It’s really alright.”

 

“It’s _not_ alright,” Ken spat, eyes flashing.  “It’s not _remotely_ alright.”

 

“I…I can handle it, Ken.”  Ken snorted.  “Really, it’s not…it’s not like it was, I…”

 

“That is not remotely the point,” Ken interrupted.  “You shouldn’t _have_ to.”

 

Tom made a helpless gesture.  “What am supposed to do about it?”

 

Kenneth threw his hands, frustrated.  “Have him expelled.”

 

Tom let out a puff of air.  “Based on _what?_ ”

 

“Or arrested,” Ken went on without pause. 

 

Tom’s blood ran cold. 

 

“I told you, no one can know about this,” Tom said, barely above a whisper. 

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Tom, you can’t honestly believe you’d be seen as some kind of _predator_ in all this,” Ken sneered. 

 

Tom bit his lip, head shaking.  “Kenneth,” he pleaded.  “Please.  There are things…if it got out…things I can’t explain, or justify, it…I _can’t_ , Kenneth, please, you have to promise me.”

 

Ken just stared at him, disbelieving.  “So…what then?  That’s it?  We do nothing?”

 

Tom swallowed, taking a breath.  “There’s less than two semesters left.  Then, he’ll be out of school, and—”

 

“ _ARE YOU INSANE?”_   Tom took a small step back, hands raising.  “Have you _completely_ lost your mind?”  Kenneth was shaking his head back and forth.  “You can’t just…I mean, he has to…” He was breathing hard, fists clenched.  “You really won’t?  Won’t even _think_ about it?” he said after a minute.  “You’d rather just… _hide_.” 

 

Tom’s muscles were stiff and taut, his chest and throat painfully tight as he bit his lip, hands held out in front of him.  He dropped his eyes. 

 

He heard Ken puff derisively, and then the bed bounced as he sat down on it, hard.  Tom glanced up to find him jamming on his shoes.  His brow furrowed. 

 

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly as Ken stood.  Ken came over and pushed right past Tom, grabbing his jacket from the closet.

 

“I’m going for a walk,” Ken said harshly, and shoving his arms through the sleeves.

 

“Al…alright,” Tom stuttered.

 

Ken wrenched open the door, letting it slam behind him. 

 

Tom stood there, frozen.  Slowly, he looked around the room, so much darker now, it seemed, with Ken gone.  He swallowed. 

 

_It’s fine, you’re fine._  

 

He glanced at the door, feeling an pressing need to pull the chain bolt closed, even knowing the door was already locked. 

 

_That’s stupid, Ken will need to get back in._  

 

He squeezed one hand into a fist. 

 

_It’s fine, it’s…he doesn’t even know where you are, you’re being ridiculous, he can’t—_

He took a shuddering breath. 

 

_It’s fine._

 

His hands were shaking.      

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mid-chapter POV switch in this one, hope it wasn't too confusing.


	32. In which Kenneth takes a walk and Tom tells a story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of resolution, Ken rethinks some things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of rape in this chapter, along with other post-trauma elements

 

 

Kenneth stalked through the halls.  He didn’t go far, just round the corner to the end of the hall, then back again, down to the other end.  He came across a vending machine, and pushed coins into the slot, fuming.  He selected a bag of crisps, and immediately smashed the bag into the top of the rubbish bin with the side of is fist.  He threw them away. 

 

He leaned back against the vending machine, eyes closing.  Then, with renewed energy, he pushed off and again took up pacing through the hallway. 

 

Tom shouldn’t have to be in the same room as that…that…even with his verbose vocabulary he couldn’t think of a word to describe something so despicable.  Moreover, that…psychopath didn’t have any right to be anywhere near _Tom._   He deserved…something much worse. 

 

The idea that he might _get away with it_ , that there would be no consequence, was intolerable.  And Tom he—it was just so _frustrating_. 

 

Fine, then, if Tom refused, he supposed he couldn’t force him.  And, he supposed he couldn’t go behind his back and report it either.  He just wasn’t sure what he _could_ and the thought that he could do _nothing_ was…unpleasant. 

 

_You could murder him,_ a smoky voice whispered, rising from nowhere.  It was a surprisingly tempting suggestion.  _It can’t be that hard.  People do it all the time_. 

 

He snorted, shaking his head to get hold of himself before he when too far down that rabbit hole.  Started…planning…things.

 

He shook his head again.  What he really needed to do was calm down.  That was why he was out here.  Whatever action he took, with or without Tom, he would need a clear head.  Especially if he meant to convince Tom of anything.  Tom was smart and unnervingly stubborn when he chose to be, he’d have to approach him…carefully, and not blow up.  Again. 

 

Tom needed time, clearly, and that was fine.  Ken could wait.  They had a whole week before he went back school, and Kenneth could wait for an opportune moment.  He could keep a hold of himself till then. 

 

He wandered back to his room, slipping his keycard into the lock and turning the handle. 

 

His brow furrowed as he looked around the dim room.  Tom was gone.  His briefcase and jacket were still there, Kenneth assured himself after a moment, so he couldn’t have gone far.  He went to turn up the lights when he noticed a bright glow shining from under the washroom door. 

 

He rapped his knuckles against the wood. 

 

“Tom?  You in there?”

 

No answer. 

 

Properly worried now, Ken twisted the knob on the door.  It was locked. 

 

He banged on the door, louder now. 

 

“Tom!  Tom, open up!”  He paused, listening.  “It’s Kenneth, please open the door.” 

 

A second later, he heard the turn of lock and Tom peeked out. 

 

“Sorry, I…I didn’t hear you at first.” 

 

Ken eyebrows came together.  “Were you taking a shower, or…”  He trailed off as he took Tom in, still fully dressed right down to his socks. 

 

“No, I…I just, um…” Tom avoided his eyes.  Ken pushed lightly on the door and Tom let it fall open, stepping back.  Ken looked over Tom, then the sink and the bath.  Everything looked normal. 

 

Tom half turned, twisting his hands, and suddenly Ken noticed his socks and trousers were very slightly wet.  He glanced at the tub.  It was empty, but no bath ever managed to be completely dry. 

 

Ken’s brow furrowed again.  Had he just been…sitting in the bath?  In his clothes?  With the door locked, just…what, exactly? 

 

He took in Tom’s expression.  Clearly embarrassed, but also something else.  A nervousness and…relief. 

 

_‘He doesn’t usually leave me on my own for this long.’_  

 

Tom’s voice echoed a moment in his head, and Ken closed his eyes with a muffled sigh.

 

_Kenneth, you stupid arse._  

 

He opened his eyes to find Tom watching him cautiously.  He flicked his eyes away.

 

“I was thinking we could order something else, for supper,” he said, lamely, after a moment.  “If you’re hungry.” 

 

Tom nodded.  Then, as though he’d forgotten how, he smiled.  “That would be nice.”

 

Kenneth called down again.  Their new food was brought up, the old taken away.  Tom had a rich soup that he actually seemed to enjoy, and they chatted, almost easily about other, trauma-evading topics. 

 

It got later, and soon they were both moving toward thinking about bed. 

 

“There should be a toothbrush set in the washroom, and I think I have a shirt you can borrow to sleep in,” Ken said, stacking their empty dishes. 

 

Tom gave a small smile.  “Thank you.” 

 

He went to the washroom, emerging a few minutes later having removed his socks, trousers and tie.  Kenneth handed him a t-shirt, already in his own pajamas.  Tom took it and began unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it off his slim shoulders and setting his clothes in a pile on the hotel dresser.  He put on the t-shirt smoothly, pulling the hem down over his hips. 

 

Kenneth was trying to force himself to move, to look away before Tom caught him staring, but he felt frozen, like his hinges were rusted.  He couldn’t move.    

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”  Ken blinked, and found Tom peering at him, head ducked.  Kenneth’s mouth worked helplessly, having missed his chance to pretend he hadn’t seen.  “I mean,” Tom went on.  “It doesn’t hurt, that much.”  He cast his eyes away.  “Anymore.” 

 

Kenneth hadn’t gotten that good a look, but he found that very unlikely.  Deep bruises nearly every color of the rainbow had decorated the creamy skin of Tom’s shoulders and back like some obscene Jackson Pollock. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” Kenneth rasped.  “I…” he gulped back tears.  “I should have been here.  You should never have been made to feel so alone.” 

 

Tom lips twisted wryly, not quite into a smile.  “I made myself alone,” he said lowly.  “I don’t think…I don’t think there’s anything…” he looked at Kenneth intently.  “I wasn’t ready.  I wouldn’t have let anyone…help.”  He looked away again.  “I got very good at…hiding.”  The last word was barely able to be heard, swallowed back into Tom’s mouth. 

 

“…But,” Kenneth said carefully after a minute.  “Didn’t you say, someone…found out?  That…that that was how you…?” 

 

Tom was silent. 

 

“Chris noticed…” he trailed off.  “But I pushed him away.  I wouldn’t even admit anything until…until things got so bad that I…” his voice choked.  “He managed to catch me after…when I…”  Tom looked about the room, as though the words he was searching for could be found there.  “It would have been very difficult,” he said deliberately after a moment.  “To be convincing.  In that moment.” He looked at Kenneth, who looked back, questions no doubt written on his face.  Tom licked his lips.  “It…wasn’t always so bad,” he said softly, tugging lightly on the back of his shirt.  “He…he…”  He sighed, turning and resting his hands on the low dresser behind him.   Kenneth took some steps backwards and sat quietly at the foot of the bed. 

 

Tom was gazing at a spot on the floor, eyes clouded over.  Ken laced his hands together and squeezed, waiting, heart in his throat. 

 

Eventually, Tom spoke, faint and inexact and unmoving. 

 

“He got angry.  Which was never good, but…this was different.  Worse.  He saw me…talking to someone.  Another man.  Got…jealous, I suppose.  He…got it in his head I was…screwing around.  I wasn’t, but…that didn’t seem to matter.  He took me—”  He broke off, swallowing.  “He put me in his car, and took me out somewhere, a…warehouse or something.  There…were these men there.” 

 

He was quiet a long time.  Something hard constricted in Ken’s chest, but he kept his face carefully blank. 

 

“He left me with them,” Tom said after a while, very, very softly.  “I’m not sure how long.  It was dark when we got there, getting light when…when they were done.  He…”

 

He stopped again.  Kenneth felt transfixed, almost hypnotized.  He didn’t think he could have looked away for anything in that moment. 

 

Tom took a deep breath. 

 

“He wanted to know…how many times.  They’d…” he paused, mouth working as his eyes tracked back and forth.  “…Used me.  I…didn’t know.  I hadn’t…counted.”  He kept getting quieter, but every cell of Kenneth’s body felt tuned to catch every word.  “But,” Tom said, with some renewed vigor.  “I told him it couldn’t…have been more than…than forty.  Which, now that I think about it…I can’t be sure that…that’s true.  I mean, it sounds absurd, but then…it’s all so fuzzy, and I just can’t… _know._ ” 

 

He was describing it like it was some curiously interesting puzzle, and Kenneth thought he might be sick. 

 

“Anyway,” Tom said conversationally.  “That’s…how many times he…hit me.  With his belt.  Forty.”  The last word was barely a murmur.  “After that, it was…well, like I said.  It was hard to be convincing.”   

 

The room was deathly still.  Everything felt muffled, like the air was thick and pressing in on them.  Jerkingly, Ken’s joints uncoiled, and he stood.  He felt like he was not quite under his own power. 

 

He went to Tom, and dropped to his knees. 

 

Tom looked at him, blinking, for the first time since he’d begun and Ken reached out, taking Tom’s right hand between both of his own.  He brought it to his lips, and kissed it, closing his eyes as though in prayer. 

 

He kept clasping Tom’s hand even as the kiss ended, and when he opened his eyes and looked up at Tom, it was as if it were the first time. 

 

“You have endured,” he began, he voice seeming to echo with some hollow clanging.  “Something I cannot imagine.  Cannot fathom.”  He gazed up fervently, every word a promise.  “Whatever you want.  That’s what we will do.  I swear it.”

 

Tom was watching him, confusion clear written on his face, but it didn’t matter. This was a vow Ken needed to make.  He kissed his hand again, rubbing it between his palms.

 

If Tom ever asked him to bring him this monster’s head on a plate, he’d do it in a heartbeat, but until then…this couldn’t be about his anger.  It just couldn’t.  Tom deserved more than a selfish champion and protector.  He deserved a friend. 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Ken's been featured in, what? Four chapters now? Fuck it, I'm adding him to the tags.


	33. In which Tom has another much needed meltdown and Chris shares important information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken takes Tom back to Chris's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I'm not super happy with how this chapter turned out (or the previous one, now that I've reread it again), but fuck it, it's been like ten days since my last update. 
> 
> No new warnings, but it's Tom's pov, and his brain is not a fun place right now.
> 
> Also, this is goodbye to Sir Kenneth for the foreseeable future. Wave everybody!

 

 

Ken pulled up in front of Chris’s apartment complex, and turned off the engine.  Tom gazed out the window.  Chris’s flat was on the ground floor, and Tom could see flashes of the kitchen through the blinds. 

 

“I could stay longer,” Kenneth said, not for the first time.  Tom smiled sadly, and turned to him. 

 

“I think one canceled lecture is enough, don’t you?” he said lightly. 

 

“That doesn’t matter,” said Ken, without a hint of doubt. 

 

Tom smiled again, and glanced away.  A part of him did want Kenneth to stay, but…he swallowed.  In other ways, it was harder.  That thing inside of him that still pushed him to…do things, it was stronger with Ken than with anyone else.  Maybe it was because they’d actually been intimate together, or maybe it was just the adoration and respect he’d always—and still—had for Ken, now mutated and perverted, but it was too difficult to keep fighting it, over and over.  To much of a reminder that what Kenneth saw him as, wasn’t what he was anymore. 

 

“Well, if you change your mind,” Kenneth went on when Tom didn’t speak.  “You can always call me.  Anytime.” 

 

“I know,” Tom whispered. 

 

“And you will call me?” Ken pressed.  “Just to talk?”

 

Tom’s smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he looked in Ken’s eyes.  “I will.” 

 

“And you’ll pick up when I call you?”  Kenneth insisted. 

 

“Of course,” Tom assured him. 

 

Kenneth sighed, and nodded.  “Alright.  Just one more thing.”  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out.  It was a check.  He held it out to Tom.  “Take it.”

 

“Ken, no,” Tom said, shaking his head.  “You’ve already—” Already done so much, more than he could repay. 

 

“Let me do this, Tom.  Please.  If I can’t be here, then—” he let out a gruff sigh.  He looked in Tom’s eyes.  “Please.  Use it to…buy some new clothes, or put a down payment on a new place, or…” he paused.  “If you want to talk to someone.  Professional.  Anything, just…” he pushed the check out to toward Tom’s chest.  “Let me do this.” 

 

A long moment, and then Tom lifted a hand and took it in two fingers.  Ken dropped his hand.  Tom looked at the check.  He sighed.  It was too much, far too much. 

 

 _Seems you made money off of whoring after all,_ he thought shrilly.  Though it didn’t seem quite fair, as Ken wasn’t benefitting himself.  _Lean back,_ Tom thought.  _I’ll blow you in the car._

 

“You mean, like a lawyer,” was what he said instead, joking bitterly. 

 

“Tom,” Ken admonished, and Tom waved a hand in apology.  He slipped the check into his pocket.  “You want me to walk you in?” Ken asked after a minute. 

 

“No, that’s alright,” Tom said softly.  For a long moment, they just looked at each other. 

 

“Tom, I…” Ken started, then fell quiet.  Tom didn’t blame him.  What could he say?  “I’ll talk to you soon,” he said finally, firmly. 

 

Tom smiled and nodded.  He leaned in and gave Ken a peck on the lips, then turned and opened the car door.  He stepped out, grabbed his briefcase from the back, closed the door, and then he was walking away toward the brown building sprawled out in front of him. 

 

He had a key, and as he fished it out in front of Chris’s door, he thought about how much he felt like utter crap.  At least Ken wouldn’t be around anymore, serving a constant, living reminder of all the things he didn’t deserve, all the things he couldn’t pay back. 

 

He opened the door, and found Chris standing in front of the sink in the kitchen. 

 

 _Oh good, here’s another one._  

 

He sighed, closing the door behind him and locking it. 

 

“Hey!” Chris said in greeting, not quite overly bright. 

 

“Hi,” Tom replied, dropping his briefcase by the table. 

 

“So…” Chris began, leading.  “Your friend, is he…?” 

 

“Leaving.  Today.  He’s…got things to get back to,” Tom said quietly. 

 

Chris was silent.  “Look,” he said quickly after a moment.  “I wasn’t…spying, exactly, but you were right out front, and I saw you two…kiss.”  He ended awkwardly, eyes flicking toward Tom with cautious concern. 

 

Tom blinked, not catching on. 

 

“Because,” Chris went on when Tom didn’t say anything.  “It’s not really any of my business, but I know…I know things have been…weird for you lately, on that front, and…and I just want to be sure that…that…” he trailed off with a sigh.  “That—” he started, trying again. 

 

“No, no,” Tom interrupted, finally understanding.  “I…it’s not…nothing happened.  Ken and I, we used to…but we haven’t in…and certainly not…last night.  The…kiss, that was just…” he searched for words.  “Familiarity.  We’re—it wasn’t…like that.” 

 

Chris nodded.  “Okay.”  His expression was casual, but Tom caught a hint of relief in his tone. 

 

 _Good thing he didn’t see him give me a check, then he might really have gotten the wrong idea_.

 

 _Or the right one,_ another voice taunted.  Tom flexed his fingers, and rubbed at the back of his neck. 

 

“You alright?” Chris asked, looking at him oddly. 

 

Tom nodded automatically.  He felt hot, itchy, and most of all, useless.  The check was a lead weight in his pocket.    

 

“You sure?” Chris pressed, sounding concerned. 

 

Tom nodded again, jaw clenching.  Chris was looking at him, patient and willing, waiting to hear what Tom had to say, but Tom knew it wouldn’t do any good.  He knew what he needed, and Chris wouldn’t give it to him.  He wasn’t about to go back to Christopher, that wasn’t even the slimmest of temptations, but he still _needed_ —

 

He could go out, he supposed.  Pick someone up in a…pub, or something.  That had never really been his speed, but it couldn’t be that hard.  Especially now that he was willing to do…anything.  Though the thought of making idle conversation with a stranger seemed unnervingly daunting. 

 

_You could skip the pub, go straight for the back ally.  There’s always someone looking for a quick fuck.  You wouldn’t even have to ask for it.  Hell, they might even pay you, play your cards right.  They’d never have to know you were anything but a cheap whore.  What’d he say?  Fifty quid?  Not bad money.  You could use it pay Ken back._

_What’s the harm in trying?_

 

That he actually considered it, if only for a second, is what pushed him to open his mouth. 

 

“Look, I—” he blurted.  “You’ve been so kind to me, and I…I know you’re not…interested in…” he let out a deep sigh.  “But there must be something I can do, just…something, anything, I can do to, just—give me something to do, please.”  He was close to tears.  He felt like he might burst. 

 

“Hey,” Chris said soothingly, and walked toward him.  He put his hands on Tom’s arms and looked at him with eyes full of comforting assurance.  “I’ve told you.  You don’t owe me anything.  You don’t have to think about me, or pay me back.  Not for anything.”

 

Tom’s hands rose up, fingers clenching beside his head.  “That’s—” his eyes squeezed shut, and then his hands came down like hammers, breaking Chris’s hold on him.  “ _NOT HELPFUL!_ ” 

 

He turned away, gulping in sobbing, gasping breaths.  He spun back around.  “I _need_ something, something to make me… _stop_ _feeling like this_ , understand?”  He was wailing, shouting, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop his hands shaking or the pleading notes in his voice.  He sobbed, tears rolling down his cheeks.  “It’s what I’m _for_ , I need to be—” He covered his mouth with both hands, eyes clenched tight.  Trembling, his hands opened, like he were begging.  “If I’m not being… _used_ or…or p…punished, then…I don’t have a _function!_ ”  He gestured helplessly, and hid his face in his hands.

 

“And I know,” he went on, eyes hidden in his palms.  “I know you don’t see it, you don’t _know_ , and I can’t explain, but I don’t deserve this, any of it, any of your help or…or anyone else’s.  I’m not…” he lowered his hands, but kept his eyes closed, head bowed.  He wiped the back of his sleeve across his nose.  “I’ve done…things, I’ve…” He couldn’t finish, covering his mouth to smother another sob.   

 

There was a long silence.  A light touch to his shoulder, and he opened his eyes.  Chris was holding out a box of tissues.  Miserable, Tom grabbed one and blew his nose.  Gently and without a word, Chris coaxed him to sit at the table.  He placed the tissues within reach, and then sat around the corner on Tom’s left.  He placed his hands together in front of him on the table. 

 

“Look, I—” Chris cut off, sighing.  “I’ve sort of been trying to find the right moment to tell you about…something.”  Tom raised his eyes to Chris’s face, mutedly wary.  “There…probably isn’t a ‘right moment’, so…and I should have told you sooner, but I was worried about…cause I didn’t talk to you first, and I should have done that too, probably, but I…I just wasn’t sure, and I—” He sighed again. 

 

Tom’s chest was constricting, tight and painful, as he grew properly worried now.  Chris looked him in the eye, and swallowed. 

 

“I talked…to Christopher,” he said watching Tom carefully.

 

Tom’s eye twitched.  “W-w-what?” he whispered.  “W-why?”

 

Chris took a deep breath.  “I think…” he said slowly, and placed his phone on the table between them.  “Maybe you should just listen.” 

 

Tom eyed the phone like it might bite him.  He’d recorded it, he realized, bile at the back of his throat.  He clenched his fist. 

 

“Tom,” Chris said softly.  “Please.” 

 

Tom looked at Chris.  Chris looked back, silently imploring.  Tom dropped his eyes, and gave the slightest of nods. 

 

Chris tapped his phone. 

 

Tom flinched at the first sound of Christopher’s voice, but he listened.  It was only a minute or two, and then the speakers went quiet.  They sat, not saying a word. 

 

“Are you…okay?” Chris asked, after a minute. 

 

Tom kept staring at Chris’s phone, and nodded. 

 

“He didn’t say anything,” Tom said after a minute, somewhat detached.  He looked up at Chris.  “At the end…”

 

Chris’s eyes tracked over him.  “He…I showed him that I’d recorded everything.  Then he just walked away.”  Tom looked back down.  “I’m…sorry about…how he talked about you.  That must be hard to hear.”

 

Tom let out a hoarse laugh.  “You mean, what he said about…?  Believe me, he’s said worse.”  His gaze turned inward.  “I’ve…said worse.”  Chris was silent. 

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Chris asked again. 

 

Tom nodded.  “Yes.  I just—” he cut off, caught up in his own thoughts.  “That’s why he was different,” Tom murmured, mostly to himself.  “Why he…”

 

 _He believed you_ , Tom thought, glancing at Chris.  _What you said to him…he believed you._  

 

And when Christopher had spoken about Tom, about him being…Tom felt a shiver go through him, like a cord had been cut from around his chest. 

 

It had sounded so much like a lie. 

 

He reached out a hand, tentative.  “Can I…can you send this to me?” 

 

Chris blinked, mouth opening.  “I…I mean, of course.  I wasn’t going to…show this, to anybody, not without your permission, but, of course, you should have control over it.  I’ll—”

 

“No,” Tom interrupted.  “I didn’t mean…it’s fine, if you have it, I just…I’d…like to have it…too.” He ended very quietly. 

 

There was a pause.  “Okay,” Chris said, unsure.  “I’ll…do that now.” 

 

He took his phone, clicked a few buttons, then gave Tom a nod.  Tom nodded back, corners of his mouth going up in something that wasn’t really a smile.  They were silent again.  Tom curled his fingers. 

 

“What were you planning to do today?” he asked Chris suddenly. 

 

Chris looked caught off-guard, but shrugged.  “Uh, not a lot.  Why?” 

 

“I…” Tom started, unconsciously moving a hand toward his pocket.  “I was thinking of doing some shopping.” 

 

Chris was nodding.  “Yeah, okay.  What time?” 

 

“Um,” Tom hesitated.  “Well, I should change,” he said, pulling at his jacket.  “And…” he looked towards his computer by the couch.  “File an insurance claim.  For my car.  But that…an hour, maybe?”  He glanced at Chris uncertainly.  “We could go?” 

 

Chris smiled, lips closed.  “Sounds great.” 

 

Tom nodded, and stood.  He wavered a moment, seeming to forget which way to go.

 

He changed first, getting into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.  He borrowed a sweater from Chris along with some casual shoes, then sat on the edge of the sofa bed and opened his laptop. 

 

He started looking up his insurance information, but then paused.  He opened his e-mail.  Cautiously, he plugged in a pair of headphones, and clicked on the file Chris had sent to his inbox. 

 

_“So, what did you want to talk about?”_

Voices played, and Tom listened, hardly moving, as he stared at the screen, unseeing, soaking up every syllable.      

 

 


	34. In which Chris and Tom go shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom gets some new clothes, he and Chris talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. As you may have noticed, updates are happening much slower these days, so i wanted to take a minute give some idea as to why, along with assuring everyone that I AM going to finish this fic if it kills me goddammit. So, here's the basic breakdown for what's taking so damn long and why updates will probably be slower for a while. 
> 
> 1: RL is getting a bit busy, I haven't had any full days off in a while, and that's probably going to continue, so I just I have less time to write.
> 
> 2: My computer has started to slow down (which is TERRIFYING) so I'm trying to go easy on it until I save up enough to buy a new one.
> 
> 3: I'm also working on a another fic. That...probably doesn't make you feel better, but at least part of my personal writing time is going to that.
> 
> 4: This part of the story is going a bit slower anyway, writing wise, for two main reasons. One, the first part of the story went SUPER FAST because I needed it OUT of my brain right the hell NOW. This bit, while still in not a super happy place, is a little easier for me to sit with, so I don't have the same urgency to get it on the page. Two, this is a little more delicate to write. I wasn't super happy with my last couple chapters, so I want to make sure I'm taking to time to get it as right as I can. It's important to me that I strike the right balance with this recovery, and I while I probably won't ever get it one hundred percent, I want to get as close as I can. I owe it to these characters, especially Tom.
> 
> So, that's basically it. I want to give thanks to all of my readers, both those who've been with me since the beginning and anyone who's just found us. You are really what keeps me going. You've no idea, really, every comment is just so motivating. Reminding me that you're all in this with me really pushes me to make the time and keep going. Thank you all.

 

 

Chris watched as Tom stood in front of the mirror in the department store changing room. A suit, a tie, a crisp new shirt. The suit was dark blue, definitely Tom’s color. It looked a bit odd without shoes at the moment, but still nice. Tom didn’t seem pleased though. He kept tugging at the jacket, first this way, then the other.

 

“Do you like it?” Chris asked hesitantly. Tom swallowed.

 

“I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It…” he pulled a bit where the jacket buttoned in the front. “Maybe a larger size?”

 

Chris’s brows rose in surprise. Tom had picked out this size and cut automatically. It was clearly what he always wore.    

 

“I…I mean, it looks like it fits,” Chris stammered, unsure, eyes tracking over a suit that appeared perfectly fitted to Tom’s form.

 

He glanced up and found Tom watching him in the mirror, a strange look on his face. His lips quirked in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“Makes my arse look good,” Tom said, ending in a sort of questioning grunt. “Yeah?”

 

Chris’s mouth fell open, not at all sure what to say to that. Tom didn’t wait for him to answer. His eyes closed and his fists clenched, and then he was gone, back to his stall. A few minutes later, he’d changed back to his street clothes. He tore out and all Chris could do was follow, trying to keep up and not lose him. Tom left the store, and nearly collapsed on an empty bench out front. Cautiously, and a little winded, Chris approached. He sat down beside Tom, and waited. Tom was bent forward over his knees, clutching a fist in the other hand.

 

It was a while before Tom spoke. He was quiet, really just whispering, and with just the slightest shift of his head toward Chris to indicate he was speaking to him.

 

“He used to say things. ‘Bout my clothes. That they were…tight. That I wore them to get attention.”

 

Something hard settled in Chris chest, and he tried not to let it come through when he spoke.

 

“That’s ridiculous,” he said softly.

 

Tom nodded, biting his lip as he brow furrowed.

 

“Yeah, I…I know. And I shouldn’t—” He paused. “I shouldn’t let him get to me. Shouldn’t let him affect…things. Right?” He turned his gaze on Chris, questioning.

 

“I…” Chris started. _I don’t know_. “Maybe. But you don’t have to—” he sighed. “I think you can pick your battles. Take it one thing at a time. You don’t have to be fighting, constantly. It’s important that you feel comfortable. And…safe. You do what you need to.”

 

Tom’s eyes turned inward as he listened, a thoughtful look on his face.

 

“Do you want to go back in?” Chris asked after a minute.

 

A moment passed, and Tom nodded.

 

Some time later, they were in front of the mirror again. Tom stood in shirtsleeves and trousers and eyed his reflection mutedly. The fabrics he’d chosen were thicker than before. Heavy cotton and tweed hugged his slim frame as he laced a dark tie around his collar. As he made the first loop, his hands slowed, and then stopped. A pause, and he ripped the tie from his neck, letting it fall haphazardly on a nearby chair, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He lifted a matching tweed jacket, and slipped it over his shoulders, buttoning it like armor with sure, deft fingers.

 

He stared himself in the eye, chin lifting almost imperceptivity, eyes firm. Then, his gaze slid to Chris.

 

Chris gave a little nod. “Looks good,” he assured him.

 

Tom returned a curt nod of his own, and turned back to the mirror, smoothing lines of the jacket. He let out a long, quiet sigh.

 

 

 

They left the store with several sets of clothes in various shades of brown and grey, a casual coat, and a pair of running shoes.

 

 

 

 

 

Tom pulled down his old clothes and hung up the new ones, stuffing the old into his suitcase.

 

“Do you want to get rid of those?” Chris asked from the kitchen. “We could donate them, or just throw them out, or…” he trailed off.

 

Tom paused, then started zipping up his suitcase. “No, I…I don’t think so. Not…not yet.”

 

Tom wasn’t looking at him, but Chris nodded anyway. _Whatever you need to do_.

 

 

 

 

Tom got an answer from his insurance company after not too long, saying they’d cover the damages to his car.

 

“I talked to the auto repair shop, they said it should be finished by the end of the week,” Tom said over breakfast. “It’s mostly cosmetic anyway.” His fork paused midair. “That…that’s what they said.”

 

“That’s good,” Chris responded agreeably. “You might have your car back by the time school starts up again.

 

Tom nodded absently, chewing. “Yes, that…will be easier.”

 

He wouldn’t meet Chris’s eyes, and Chris hoped he was right. He hoped it would all get easier.

 

 

 

 

 

They spent their week off quietly. They ate most of their meals together. Tom spent time working on lesson plans, apparently for the next five hundred semesters, from what Chris could tell. He started helping with the cooking and cleaning as well, usually with Chris there, but occasionally Chris caught him scrubbing the bathtub or wiping the windows on his own. It wasn’t exactly a comfortable routine, but it wasn’t exactly _un_ comfortable either.

 

Tom didn’t talk much, and certainly not about what happened to him. Chris didn’t push. He privately thought Tom could do with a professional therapist. He even mentioned it to Tom a few times. Tom didn’t seem interested. Like everything else, that was probably something Tom needed to come to on his own.

 

 

 

 

 

It was after dinner Sunday night. Chris was clearing the table, pointedly trying not to say something about school tomorrow. Tom hadn’t mentioned it. His car was ready, his clothes were pressed. Everything seemed fine. Well. As fine as could be expected. There was something disquieting nagging at the back of Chris’s brain, but he honestly couldn’t tell if it was based on anything or it was just his own anxieties getting the best of him.

 

Tom stood in front of the kitchen sink with a glass of water and shook two pills into his hand. He took the pain meds pretty regularly, and this was right on schedule. He lifted the pills to his mouth, and then suddenly stopped. He lowered his hand, the pills still resting in his palm.

 

Chris put down the salad bowl on the counter and looked over at him cautiously.

 

“Everything okay?” he asked after a minute.

 

“I don’t need them,” Tom mumbled, so quiet Chris could barely hear him. Chris moved over to him, hovering uncertainly behind one shoulder. Tom was staring at the pills in his hand like they had suddenly transformed into something else entirely, right before his eyes. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Chris. “I don’t need them,” he said again, voice trembling. There were tears in his eyes, and Chris felt his brow furrow in concern. “I…I’m not in pain,” Tom explained, and then he let out a sob, dropping the pills in the sink as his hand rose to cover his mouth.

 

Chris took a step forward without even meaning to, and then Tom’s arms were wrapped around him, his face buried in his neck as he cried. Chris put his arms around Tom’s back, not quite sure what to do, not quite sure what was happening. A few minutes later he realized Tom was muttering into his shoulder. Chris pulled back just slightly and focused on the muffled sounds.

 

“ _Thank you, thank you, thank you_ , _thank you._ ” He said over and over again, like a chant. Chris felt bewildered. What could he say? ‘You’re welcome’?

 

“Tom, what…?” he started after a while.

 

Tom pulled away, sniffling. “I’m sorry. I just….it’s…” he paused, biting his lip. “I’d forgotten. What it was like.”

 

It took a bit for Chris to catch on, to realize what he meant.

 

_When was the last time_ , Chris wondered. _The last day you didn’t **hurt**?_

 

_Probably some time in October._

“Oh,” he said. Because what else could he say?

 

Tom let out a dry laugh, and wiped his nose. He lifted his glass of water from the counter and drank.

 

“That must sound really pathetic,” Tom said after he swallowed.

 

_Not the word I would have chosen_ , Chris thought.

 

“Here, I’ll get the rest,” Tom said before he could say anything, and moved to the table, stacking dishes in quick, smooth movements.

 

Chris watched a moment, then rolled up his sleeves and started on the dishes.

 

Tom joined him. Chris washed, Tom dried and put away.

 

“It’s amazing,” Chris said after a while, about a second before he realized it was a bad idea. “That…that you were even able to function, for as long as you did. I…I mean, when I found you in the parking lot, you could barely stand. If all this had been going on for months…” He fell silent. He didn’t really know where he’d been going with that.

 

“It wasn’t always like that,” Tom said quietly after a moment. Chris slid his gaze to one side, watching Tom from the corner of his eye. “That was…worse. Than usual. He was angry.”

 

Chris glanced away. “He wasn’t usually angry?” he asked, not really able to hide the skepticism in his voice.

 

“…Not like that.” Tom kept his eyes on the plate he was wiping, then turned away to place it in the cupboard. “He didn’t usually hurt me because he was angry. That was just…how he did things. Being angry or…unhappy, that just made it worse.”

 

Chris scrubbed at pan that was probably already clean with unnecessary ferocity. He was starting to think maybe he wasn’t the best person to be talking to about this.

 

He couldn’t seem to stop, though.

 

He rinsed the pan. “So you kept him happy.”

 

Tom nodded. “Tried to.”

 

“Until you couldn’t,” Chris said, handing to clean pan over to Tom.

 

Tom paused, then nodded, wiping the pan dry.

 

“I got so good at handling him. Sensing his moods, learning what to do.” Tom shrugged. “In the end it didn’t matter. I was just fooling myself, thinking I had any…sort of control.” He pulled open the drawer next to the oven.

 

“People like that,” said Chris, wiping his hands. “They’re volatile. You can’t ever really know what’ll set them off.”

 

Tom closed the drawer, smiling sadly. “You can have some idea though,” he murmured, half to himself.

 

“Do you?” Chris found himself asking. “Know what set him off?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Tom said softly. When he didn’t say anything else, Chris opened his mouth, then shut it again. Tom caught his questioning look however. He was silent a moment, glancing away. Then he looked at Chris, almost shrugging. “He thought we were fucking.”

 

A moment to process, and then Chris flashed back to that morning in the parking lot.

 

**_You stupid…thoughtless…_ **

 

All at once, things made a lot more sense. He could almost imagine it, the other side of the story, what had gone on where he couldn’t see.

 

He swallowed. He felt…not guilty, exactly. He hadn’t done this to Tom, and he couldn’t have known, not really, but still…

 

In his mind’s eye, blood swirled down the drain of his bathtub.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

 

Tom looked back at him, eyes clear and intent. “I’m not.”

 

Chris felt the confusion on his face, and Tom let a small, brittle laugh. He looked away, pressing his lips together, and then spoke again.

 

“If you hadn’t…I probably wouldn’t be here, now. I’d probably…still be with him.” Tom put one hand on the counter, rubbing idly along the edge. “I think, maybe, it had to get that bad. Before I’d…” he trailed off, eyes tracking over empty air. “Before I’d let it get better.”

 

Chris was quiet. “You don’t…we don’t know that. We…” he stumbled, not sure what he was trying to say. “We can’t know what would have happened if things had been different.” And wasn’t that an utterly useless thing to say. Tom was still. He didn’t look up. Chris pressed on. “But I don’t think you had to go through that.” He let out along sigh, and wiped his hands on a dry towel. “I don’t think you had to go through any of this,” he said, barely more than a mutter.

 

“So,” Tom said after a moment, a sad smile playing at the corner of this mouth. “You don’t believe things happen for a reason?” He lifted his eyes. “That there’s some…higher purpose. Greater meaning.” He said it all lightly, almost ironically, but there was something underneath the dry delivery.

 

“I believe,” Chris said carefully. “That we—people—we give things meaning. We’re the ones who take horrible things, and find…wisdom or…insight. Who can take bad experiences and turn them into something beautiful, or important.” His voice firmed. “But I don’t believe those things _had_ to happen. That they’re _supposed_ to.” Tom didn’t say anything. “What about you?” Chris asked gently. “What do you believe?”

 

For a moment, Tom didn’t react, and then he shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “Maybe…maybe there’s bad—bad people, bad…things that happen—so that…we can see how good some people can be.” He smiled wryly. “After all, if there weren’t any villains or catastrophes…there wouldn’t be any heroes either.”

 

Chris felt his stomach knot. “I don’t know if that’s true. And even if it is, I’m…not sure it’s…” he trailed off, biting his lip. He caught Tom’s eyes. “I don’t think people should have to go through bad things just to prove how good they are.”

 

Tom brow crinkled, and then he glanced away. Without a word he moved to leave the kitchen. Chris bit back a sigh, dropping his eyes. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut. Tom started to pass Chris, then stopped.

 

“I wasn’t talking about me,” he said quietly.

 

Chris blinked, and turned to look at him, but Tom has already moved on and all he could see was his back.

   

 


End file.
